
t i i t 














* 




















































• . 


















































































» . 



































f 























































• * 















' 8 m 

. 








• \' 

. 

. 






























- 








































































































’ 





























1LLECTI0N OF FOREIGN, AUTHORS 
No. XV. 


"ALES FROM THE GERMAN 


Paul Heyse. 



NEW YORK 

X APPLETON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 
549 BROADWAY 551 



COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS, 


No. xv. 


TALES FROM THE GERMAN OF 
PAUL HEYSE. 


COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS 


I. SAMUEL BROHL AND COMPANY. A Novel. From the 
French of Victor Cherbuliez. i vpl., i6mo. Paper cover, 
60 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

II. GERARD' S MARRIAGE. A Novel. From the French of 
Andre Theuriet. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. 

III. SPIRITE. A Fantasy. From the French of Theophile Gautier. 

Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

IV. THE TO IYER OF PERCEMONT. From the French of 

George Sand. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

V. META HOLDENIS. A Novel. From the French of Victor 
Cherbuliez. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

VI. ROMANCES OF THE EAST. From the French of Comte 
de Gobineau. Paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

VII. RENEE AND FRANZ (Le Eleuet). From the French of 
Gustave Haller. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

VIII. MADAME GOSSELIN. From the French of Louis Ulbach. 
Paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

IX. THE GODSON OF A MARQUIS. From the French of 
AndrIs Theuriet. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. 

X. ARIADNE. From the French of Henry Greville. Paper cover, 
50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

XI. SAFAR-HADGI ; or, Russ and Turcoman. From the French of 
Prince Lubomirski. Paper cover, 60 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

XII. IN PARADISE. From the German of Paul Heyse. 2 vols. 
Per vol., paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

XIII. REMORSE. A Novel. From the French of Th. Bentzon. Paper 

cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

XIV. JEAN TETE ROE’S IDEA. A Novel. From the French of 

Victor Cherbuliez. Paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00. 


TALES 


FROM THE GERMAN 


PAUL HETSE 

* * 





NEW YOKE 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
549 AND 551 BROADWAY 
1879 


COPYRIGHT BY 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY. 
1878 , 


o 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


The publication of this volume, and the recent 
translation of “In Paradise,” his latest novel, open 
to English readers both classes of works by which 
Paul Heyse has won his position in contemporary lit- 
erature. That this position is in many respects pecul- 
iar — that it differs greatly from that of the successful 
novelist simply — makes it difficult of definition in a 
sentence. It is best understood by tracing briefly the 
unusually steady and consistent development by which 
it has been gained. 

Heyse came from his university a scholar of some 
mark in the study of the Romance languages and of 
their older literatures ; and more than twenty years 
ago began to take rank among the best of the minor 
German poets, by poems upon themes suggested to 
him in this field. Even in these, however, he was es- 
sentially the teller of a story ; and it was in his met- 
rical tales — some of which may be compared in subject 
and spirit, though not at all in merit, with those of 
William Morris — that he excelled. Always a writer 
of musical and even beautiful verse, far removed from 
anything like mediocrity, he must still have felt very 
early that the place of a great poet lay just outside his 
reach ; and, although he has continued, to his latest 
published work, to write as charming idyls and as 
spirited lyrics as before, he has used these of recent 


6 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


years most frequently as interludes in stories, or as, in 
some shape, accessories to his prose. Of his longer 
poems and his dramas, “ Thekla ” and “ Franzesca von 
Rimini ” will possibly he best remembered; but none of 
them will probably outlive a single volume of his tales. 

The first of these were written at the same time 
with his early poems ; and, in the collections of Novel- 
len that were published during the fifteen years from 
1855 to 1870, his progress toward his present attitude 
is clearly traceable. From the beginning all his stories 
were remarkable for grace, and sometimes for a cer- 
tain exquisite art ; and he soon made himself known 
as the possessor of that rarest trait among the recent 
German writers — a simple, pure, and forceful style. 
But for a time his sketches rather showed these qual- 
ities, with an unusual share of versatility and clev- 
erness, than anything like the serious motive of his 
recent work. Exactly when the change began it is 
impossible to say ; yet it is certain that, after some 
five or six years of desultory writing, everything that 
came from his pen showed that “ Tendenz ” — to use a 
word which the Germans somewhat overwork — that 
direction or aim that now marks all his tales as 
well as his two more ambitious novels. He has re- 
mained first of all an artist ; but in one respect he has 
changed the artist’s attitude ; and, instead of using his 
keen artistic sense and perception in looking on at life 
from the outside, he has carried them into the service 
of a kind of propaganda of which he may be called 
the founder. With all the fervor of a prophet crying 
“ Repent ” in a wilderness of Philistinism and modern 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


7 


realism, lie has made his books preach a religion sin- 
gularly mingled of sympathy with the purely human, 
and worship of the purely aesthetic. That it is fair to 
use the word “ religion ” will be granted by all readers 
of “ In Paradise ” or of “ The Children of the World; ” 
a certain enthusiasm and intensity of conviction — a 
recognition of the seriousness of things — give to his 
writings almost the spirit of an exhortation, and have 
a bracing, freshening effect even on that large ma- 
jority of his readers to whom his artist’s creed is 
rather a subject of interest than of sympathy. 

It is this peculiar attitude, joined to his irresistible 
charms of literary art, that have made him in Germany 
not only a man with an audience, but a man with a 
following. For the rest, there are always a few per- 
sonal details which the readers of a book are glad to 
know of its author. Paul Heyse was born in Berlin, 
on the 15th of March, 1830. He lives in Stuttgart, 
whither he removed from Munich in 1854, with his 
wife (now dead), the daughter of the art-critic and 
historian Kugler. He had gone to Munich after study- 
ing at Berlin and at Bonn. Besides his better-known 
original work he has been an editor, a translator, and 
a critic ; and at forty-eight can look back on a quarter 
of a century of rarely successful and deserving literary 
labor. These words of introduction are perhaps not 
needed to supply acquaintance with a career now 
widened by the English version of his writings ; but 
nothing is amiss that adds to the real pleasure Eng- 
lish readers cannot fail to have in an author whose work, 
it may be hoped, is but half done. E. L. B. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

COUNT ERNEST’S HOME 9 

THE DEAD LAKE 105 

THE FURY (L’ARRABIATA) 183 

JUDITn STERN 


211 


COUNT ERNEST’S HOME. 


While I was at college, I chanced one summer to 
fall into habits of frequent and intimate intercourse 
with a young man, whose intellectual countenance and 
refinement of character never failed to exercise a win- 
ning influence even upon the most cursory of his ac- 
quaintance. 

I may call our connection intimate ; for I was the 
only one of our student set whom he ever asked to go 
and see him, or himself occasionally visited. But in 
our relations there was nothing of that wild, exuber- 
ant, often obtrusive kind of fraternizing, affected by 
our studious youth. From that we were as far when 
we parted in the autumn as we had been on our first 
walk by the Rhine ; when the same road, and the 
same delight in the marvelous beauty of the spring 
scenery before us, had first introduced us to each 
other’s notice. 

Even of his worldly circumstances I had learned 
but little. I had heard that he came of an ancient 
and noble house ; that his boyhood had been passed 


10 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


at his father Count ’s castle, under the direction 

of a French tutor, with whom he had then been sent 
to travel, and finally, at his own express desire, to 
college. There he had ascertained, what he had long 
suspected, that in each and every branch of regular 
instruction he was totally deficient. Thereupon he 
straightway shut himself up with books and private 
tutors ; suffered the tumult of loose Burschen-life to 
sweep by him, without once lifting his eyes from his 
task ; and by the time I knew him he had got so far 
as to rise every morning with the “ Ethica ” of Aris- 
totle, and to lie down at night with a chorus of 
Euripides. 

Not a shade of pedantry, not a tint of scholastic 
rust, was left to clog the free play of his mind at the 
close of all those years of sharp-set study. Numbers 
of industrious people work because they do not know 
how to live ; but his life was in his work ; he took 
science in its plenitude with all his faculties at once. 
He acknowledged no intellectual gain that did not 
tend to elevate his character, or that stood at variance 
with his mental instincts. 

In this sense his was, perhaps, the most ideal na- 
ture I ever knew ; if the term be not abused, as it too 
often is, to mean a vapid kind of beauty worship, and 
a sentimental distaste for rough realities, but used in its 
loftier and certainly far rarer sense : an ideal standard 
of human character, resolutely upheld and steadily 
pursued, with undaunted spirit, if with moderate ex- 
pectations, and at whatever sacrifice of present brill- 
iance and success ; a thorough contempt of cram, as 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


11 


well as of every other form of professional narrow- 
mindedness. 

It is quite conceivable, therefore, that the coarser 
kind of student pleasures could not prove ensnaring 
to this young hermit, whose seclusion came to be in- 
terpreted as aristocratic prejudice, from which no man 
could be more free. Education may have done some- 
thing to confirm his natural aversion to all that was 
coarse, excessive, or impure. But as his scrupulous 
personal cleanliness was innate, so also was his almost 
maidenly delicacy in matters of morality. Never 
have I met sudh firmness of resolve, never so much 
masculine energy of intellect, united to so girlish a 
reluctance to talk of love and love-affairs. Conse- 
quently, he kept aloof from all those clamorous ca- 
rousals where, amid the fumes of liquor and tobacco, 
liberty and patriotism, love and friendship, God and 
immortality, are in their turns discussed on the same 
broad basis of easy joviality as the last ball or the 
newest cut of college cap. Even in a tMe-d-tdte, where 
he could so eloquently hold forth on any scientific 
problem, he very rarely touched on questions dealing 
with the most private and personal interests of man. 
History, diplomacy, politics, and the classics, were 
subjects he would discuss with passionate eagerness. 
Then he could wax as warm and fluent in debate as 
though he were addressing a listening nation that he 
wished to win to some great purpose. To things of 
common life he rarely referred. Of his own family I 
never heard him speak. His father he mentioned 
only once. 


12 


COUNT ERNESTS HOME. 


One evening, when I went to ask him whether he 
would join me in a row upon the river — in one of 
those excursions of which he was so fond, when we 
used to take a little boat to a tavern a mile or two 
below the town, and, after a frugal meal, to walk 
home by starlight — I found him just as he had thrown 
aside his pen, and was struggling with the resolution 
necessary to dress for an evening party. 

“ Pity me ! ” he cried, as I came in ; “ only look 
at that magnificent sunset, and imagine that I am 
doomed to turn my back upon it, and to go where 1 
shall see no other midnight splendor but that of the 
stars on dress-coats ! ” 

And he mentioned one of the most distinguished 
houses in the town, where a party was to be given in 
honor of some passing diplomat. 

“ And must you ? ” I asked, with sincerest sympa- 
thy. For all our intimacy, we had never come to 
saying thou. 

“ I must,” he sighed. “ My father, who has set 
his heart on making a diplomat of me, whether I will 
or not, would be indignant if I were to go home with- 
out being able to inform him whether the suppers at 
Baron N ’s are still such as to justify their Euro- 

pean reputation. Hitherto I have been so culpable as 
to ignore them, and now, at the last, I have to fill up 
these blanks in my course of study.” 

He saw me smile, and hastily added : “ My father, 
you must know, has, if possible, a still more uncivil opin- 
ion than I have of the liveried nonentities that stop 
the way in that kind of society ; only what he finds 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


13 


wanting in them is not what I do. He is of the old 
school, a diplomat of the Empire. He has seen the 
world in flames, and cannot forget the demoniac light 
by which he then saw all things, good and bad, fair 
and foul, high and low. Now the world is quiet and 
regular enough, but sleepy, tame, and colorless. At 
least he thinks so. Still it is the world, and he who 
would rule in his generation must make himself ac- 
quainted with his subjects. He gave me very few 
maxims to take away with me when I came here, be- 
sides this one, certainly with fifty variations : ‘ Read 
men more than books.’ ‘ When I was at your age,’ 
he used to say, ( books played a very subordinate part 
in the world. I have known many a clever man, who 
from the time he entered into society never read a 
line save the newest novel or the latest war-bulletin, 
and never -wrote a syllable except in love-letters or 
dispatches. He had all the more time to act, or, if 
necessary, to think ; and when is it not necessary to 
think ? But learning, book-learning ! we never thought 
of such a thing, and yet we knew everything, of 
course. It was in the air ; and where, nowadays, you 
very soon get to the end of your Latin, our French 
took us a good way farther.’ So I considered that 
as settled, and more than once I have girded up my 
loins to go and read these men, and study them. But 
after the first few pages, I generally found out that 
their titles were the most important part about them. 
Either I am a stupid reader (a 1 kind reader ’ I know 
I am not!), or else the great world of the present day 
really is a most insipid study.” 


14 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


His carriage came to the door, and I went away ; 
for I had often noticed that it embarrassed him when 
any one was present while he was dressing. 

At a later hour, as I chanced to pass the house 

where the aristocracy of was to be assembled, I 

saw him getting out of the carriage. We exchanged a 
short look with a shade of irony ; and then he went 
slowly up the carpeted steps, and I looked after him, 
feeling proud of his knightly bearing and of the grace 
of his stalwart figure. 

He could be dangerous to womankind, as I had 
heard from several sources. They even told a story 
of a distinguished Englishwoman, who, after divers 
attempts to win him, attempts as fruitless as unequi- 
vocal, had at last gone off in rage and undisguised 
despair, after having wrung her parrot’s neck for 
screaming from the window, day and night, the name 
of the coy young count. 

I was unable to learn more of this, or of any other 
of his adventures ; he carefully avoided any conversa- 
tion about women ; still, nothing he ever said could 
have led me to assume that he thought meanly of 
them, or that he was suffering from any hidden wound, 
of which he could not bear the probing. 

Judging by the whole tenor of his conduct, I de- 
cided that, striving as he did at aims so serious, he 
found no time for trifling flirtations, and never had 
been touched by a deeper feeling. His mother had 
died very soon after the birth of her first-born son ; 
but he would occasionally receive letters addressed in 
a feminine hand, and he told me they came from an 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


15 


old nurse of his, who had been as a second mother to 
him. She was evidently very dear to him ; but even 
of her he spoke but little ; eager discussions upon his 
own studies or mine were ever burning on his lips. 

He was several years in advance of me, and when 
we parted in the autumn he went to pass his diploma- 
tic examination at Berlin. We bade each other a very 
affectionate farewell, without much hope of continuous 
intercourse ; w^e knew that what we had hitherto ex- 
changed no correspondence could have replaced. But 
we were young, and we parted in the confident hope 
that life and its chances must, in some way or other, 
bring us together again. 

For many a long year I heard nothing of him but 
his name ; the last I learned was from a newspaper, 
which stated that Count Ernest had been appoint- 

ed secretary of legation at Stockholm. Again a long 
time elapsed without the smallest tidings of him ; and 
I confess that his image had nearly faded from my 
memory when it chanced that, on a pedestrian tour, 
I suddenly lit upon his name, printed upon a road- 
post that pointed to a deep lane, all overgrown with 
brushwood, cutting at right angles the road which I 
had taken. I stopped, and, as if by a magician’s 
wand, the country round me seemed metamorphosed. 

Again the Rhine was rolling at my feet, and again 
I saw his straight lithe figure, as he walked along, 
holding his hat in his hand, and letting the fresh breeze 
from the current play among his luxuriant hair of red- 
dish gold ; and those fine eyes of his, so full of thought, 
gazing over the river toward the mountains, until my 


16 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


voice would rouse him from his musings. This vision- 
ary play of memory lasted but a moment, and then 
an uncontrollable desire came over me to look upon 
that face once more, and abundantly to make up for 
what I had lost so long. 

It was early in the afternoon ; I hoped that I should 
not mistake the road, and never doubted but that at 
this autumn season I should find my friend at home ; 
he was an eager sportsman, and had spoken far oftener 
of the trees than of the persons he had known from 
childhood. 

I may have followed this ravine for about an hour, 
when it suddenly occurred to me as strange that the 
road should be so neglected and overgrown ; it was 
evident that no sort of carriage could possibly have 
passed this way for years. The foliage of past au- 
tumns lay mouldering in deep crevices ; here and there, 
a fragment of rock or rotten branch had been hurled 
from the edge by the winter storms ; only in the 
firmest parts of the ground were occasional tracks of 
human passage. I sent my doubts to sleep with the 
supposition that, long before this, some other and more 
level road must have been made between the castle 
and the plain. And yet, on entering the ravine, I had 
certainly ascertained that no nearer way was possible 
from the little manufacturing town I had left behind. 
At the summit of the pass, where half a dozen neglect- 
ed paths diverged, I stopped in real perplexity. I 
climbed up a wide-armed beech-tree, and looked all 
round me. 

A deep circular hollow lay before me, almost like 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


17 


a lake, filled with lovely bright-green waves of densest 
foliage. It was a vast forest of old beech- trees. Just 
in the centre rose the turrets of the castle, over which 
the wilderness seemed to close. 

It was like a fairy tale to see the spires and 
weathercocks glittering in the bright autumn sun, as 
in those stories of sunken castles which show their pin- 
nacles on some clear day, peeping from the hidden 
depths of water. There was not a sound of human 
life ; the woodpecker tapped monotonously against the 
trees ; a careless deer ran past me, with more sur- 
prise than terror ; while swarms of audacious squirrels, 
among the branches, were aiming at the intruder with 
the empty husks of beech-nuts. 

I was on the point of giving it up when, with a 
sharper look at the enchanted castle, I saw a thin 
thread of smoke to inform me that it could not exclu- 
sively be harboring hobgoblins. 

That the owner had not been here for years might, 
with some degree of certainty, be surmised ; but some 
sort of castellan or game-keeper might be there, and 
from him I hoped to hear some tidings of my friend 
and his welfare, and at least to spend a night in a 
home which he had loved with all his heart. 

I took one of these downward paths at a ven- 
ture, and soon plunged into the strangest, darkest 
night of wood that ever stirred above a wanderer’s 
head. 

And in the night came dreams ; and these soon 
wove a spell about me, and I quite forgot whence I 
had come and whither I was going, and blindly left 


18 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


my legs to guide me, as they stepped uniformly on, 
until they came to an involuntary halt at a broad 
stream, where not a trace of path could be discerned ; 
the trees stood thick, interlacing their branches with 
the brushwood, and forming an impenetrable barrier. 
I immediately turned back, and walked steadily up- 
ward until a path to the right again seduced me ; then 
I tried another downward, went astray again, and so 
went wandering on for hours, making the whole round 
of the valley, without catching a single glimpse of the 
castle peeping through the thickets. The moon was 
already shining upon the tree-tops, and I made up my 
mind to pass the night in the airiest of lodgings. 

Suddenly, when I least expected it, the brushwood 
opened, and there, like an island in the midst of a lake 
of verdure, the old gray building stood square before 
me, with countless unglazed windows, but without one 
trace of human habitation. A broad stone bridge 
across the dried-up moat reached right into the dark 
court, from which the three square wings of the build- 
ing rose ponderous and unadorned. Not a balcony 
nor jutting window was there to relieve the stern mo- 
notony of the walls ; nothing but a gigantic coat of 
arms hewn in stone above the gateway, in which I 
recognized the bearings of a well-remembered signet 
ring. 

Nearer to the roof, the castle wore a gayer aspect ; 
the copper-plates about the gables shone mildly in the 
moonbeams, and the numerous chimney-tops with 
weathercocks and flagstaff s seemed all spangled over 
with silver. Nowhere a light ; not a window opened 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


19 


to the evening air ; even the smoke I had seen upon 
the roof was gone. 

As I stood on the bridge, and looked upon the rank 
vegetation which choked up the moat, and then at the 
forest pressing onward to the very threshold of the 
castle, the thought would force itself upon me that in 
fifty years or so all this vast work of human hands 
would be destroyed and overcome by the exuberance 
of Nature ; that these tall beeches would thrust their 
branches into the deserted halls, take possession of the 
court, and sink their roots deep into the vaulted cel- 
lars ; till, stone by stone, the whole fabric would give 
way, and again the forest reign alone. 

I entered the courtyard ; and when the long grass 
that grew in the chinks between the paving stones 
muffled the echo of my steps, I began to be sensible 
of a strange sound proceeding from a small building 
that had been patched on beside the bridge. At first 
I took it for the jarring of a shutter shaken by the 
wind ; and then I thought that such a noise could only 
be produced by some vigorous deep-bass snoring. I 
saw a light at one small window, and stole up to it to 
peep in. In a low room two men were seated at a 
table, with bottles and half-emptied glasses before 
them, and a pack of cards. One of them, huddled 
into a corner, had fallen asleep. The other sat leaning 
on his elbows, staring into the light with sleepy swim- 
ming eyes, a short pipe between his teeth. Now and 
then he caught a fly, and burned it at the candle ; and 
he hardly turned his head when he heard me at the 
window-pane. 


20 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


“ What’s the matter now ? ” he called, in a voice 
worn and made hollow by drunkenness. “Bid the 
mamsell 1 send our supper, the devil take her ! ” 

Before I could speak, I heard another and a more 
gentle voice calling to me across the court : “ Who is 
there ? is a stranger there ? ” I turned, and at the 
chief entrance I saw a female figure standing, whom, 
by the huge bunch of keys she carried at her girdle, 
I could not err in taking for the housekeeper. She 
was dressed all in black — all but a tremendous cap, of 
which the broad bright ribbons fluttered oddly about 
her delicate, faded face. 

Taking off my hat to her, I inquired, as politely as 
I could, while I drew near, whether this really was the 

castle of Count Ernest , and, despite the deserted 

look, whether he might not chance to be at home ? I 
wished to be announced to him as an old friend, al- 
though, to be sure, we had not met for years. 

The old lady stood looking at me for a while with 
a melancholy searching gaze, and then said : “ This 

certainly is the castle of the Counts of ; but my 

master, whom you seek, you will not find. It is two 
years since Count Ernest took leave of this place for- 
ever. Perhaps you are not aware that he is settled in 
Sweden ? It is true,” she added, after a pause, “ the 
world is very different to these woods ; things that 
will keep sounding in my ears all my lifetime may be 
scarcely heard out there. But will you not come in ? 

1 The title given to all housekeepers in old-fashioned German 
houses. Hie Hausmamsell is so untranslatable a title in its exact 
meaning, that I have left it. — Translator. 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


21 


You cannot leave this place to-night, and you must he 
so kind as to put up with the little we have to offer. 
It used to be very different ; in our hospitable days, 
guests used to be glad to stay a week. Since the 
castle has been kept in trust for the two little counts, 
all has gone to ruin. You have seen yourself, sir, the 
sinful way in which the forester and Monsieur Pierre 
kill the time. They clean out nothing but the cellars; 
and when I say a word of what is needful to be done, 
the villains turn upon their heels, and I might as well 
have spoken to the walls. I myself am old, and my 
eyes get worse and worse, so that I can hardly see to 
cleanliness and order as I should do. But pray come 
in, sir, and take a bite of something, and talk to me 
of my dear Count Ernest, of whom now I can only 
talk to empty rooms and pictures. Your visit will be 
the greatest favor you can do me.” 

I still stood on the steps before the great arched 
door, and felt strangely moved. This old woman’s 
thin, quavering voice, and the weary blue eyes with 
which she looked so sadly on me, increased the dreari- 
ness of the place and sharpened the recollections that 
came crowding over me. 

“You are Mamsell Flor,” I said at last, “from 
whom my friend used to get letters when he was at 
college ? He appeared to be very much attached to 
you.” 

At these words her eyes overflowed at once. 
“ Come,” she said, and stretched out a slim, withered 
hand ; “ I see you know me — we are old friends. I 
have been sadly wanting to see some kind and sym- 


22 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


pathizing face once more before I die. It is a long 
while to have lived only among servants, for indeed I 
have been used to better company.” 

She led me across the dark entrance-hall and 
through a vaulted passage to a great hall, dimly 
lighted by a few candles. Two farm-servants and a 
maid were seated at a heavy stone table, supping, who 
stared astonished when they heard a strange voice 
wishing them good-evening. My companion gave a 
few whispered orders to the maid, and turned to me 
again. 

“ The provisions we have in the house are but 
poor,” she said. “ Everything we want has to be 
brought for miles through the woods ; and I myself 
require so little. But for one night, sir, you will not 
mind bad cookery. This hall, you see, was once a 
chapel, in old times, when the counts were Catholic ; 
it was then left some time to dust and ruin, until at 
last Count Henry, our count Ernest’s father, had the 
altar, the benches, and the pictures taken away, and 
an eating-room arranged. You can still see the niche 
for the choristers over there, where the floor is raised 
and boarded. That is the master’s table, at which 
Count Henry used to sup all his life, with the officials 
about the place — the steward, the forester, the cas- 
tellan (not Monsieur Pierre then), and the bailiff ; 
and at this stone table I supped with the servants ; 
we had crowds of them then. We never spoke a 
word, and the count seldom asked a question. When 
he had company staying with him, the table was laid 
up-stairs in the great saloon, as it always was at 


COUNT ERNEST' 8 HOME. 


23 


dinner, when he dined with the countess. I will 
just light this candelabrum on the master’s table ; 
who knows whether I shall live to see it lighted 
agam ? ” 

She placed a heavy five-branched candelabrum of 
massive silver on the table, which she had laid with a 
snow-white damask cloth ; and shortly after a supper 
was served up, that might have been far more frugal 
and still appeared excellent after my long wanderings. 
While I ate and drank, the old lady disappeared, and 
left me to my meditations. The men were already 
gone. I looked up into a twilight depth of desert 
space, broken by a few tall pointed windows, through 
which the moonbeams fell. The cross-vaults of the 
ceiling were supported by square pillars, fretted all 
over with antlers ; and the same ornament was placed 
at regular intervals along the walls, with a small tab- 
let under each, recording the date of the shot and the 
name of the shooter. What changes had the world 
not seen, from the days when the first high mass was 
celebrated here to the present evening, when a stran- 
ger sits alone at a deserted table, counting these dust- 
worn trophies ! I took the candelabrum to light my- 
self along while I went reading the names on the lit- 
tle tablets, reaching about two centuries back. 

Counts, and princes, and princely prelates, even a 
few high-born dames, had been pleased to immortalize 
their luck. Presently I came to a well-known name, 
beneath a stately antler of fourteen : 

“ On the 20th of September, Count Ernest shot 
this mighty stag, who numbers as many times as the 


24 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


young count years, in the glade by the Deer’s Drought. 
Anno Domini 183-.” 

Heavy steps now came sounding along the pas- 
sages, and two men made their boisterous entrance. 

I immediately recognized the respectable pair of 
the watch-tower by the bridge. The farm-servants 
may have told them that there was a stranger in the 
house, and they had shaken themselves out of their 
drunken sleep and come to assert their rights as guar- 
dians and watchmen. The castellan, Monsieur Pi- 
erre, blinking on me with his small, yellow, much in- 
flamed eyes, measured me from head to foot, with a 
very comical combination of sleepiness and impu- 
dence. He stammered out a few words in a hoarse 
voice, in very indifferent French ; but he was soon 
talked down by his companion, who walked straight 
up to me, and, in the most brutal tone of official zeal, 
inquired who I was, and what I wanted. 

I dryly answered that I was a friend of Count 
Ernest’s, and had come to see the castle. At once a 
change came over the spirit of the pair. The castellan 
commenced a series of crouching, cat-like obeisances, 
while the forester contrived to hit on the happiest 
transition from the most insolent aggressiveness to 
the respectful bluntness of the honest woodman. I 
perceived that I was taken for a far more important 
personage than I was — for an emissary of the family, 
come to hold an impromptu inspection of the castle 
and its condition. The forester, officiously relieving 
me of the candlestick, forced me into a seat again, and 
sent a man to the cellar for a bottle of the best and 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


25 


oldest wine ; while, with a sly kick or a smothered 
imprecation, he made an occasional attempt to awaken 
his drowsy colleague to the full gravity of the situa- 
tion. However, I did not care to he initiated into the 
details of the administration of woods and buildings ; 
and I felt so much disgusted with the voluble servility 
of this precious pair of rogues, that I broke off sudden- 
ly, as soon as the old lady returned to the hall ; and 
excusing myself with the natural fatigue of a pedes- 
trian, I begged her to light me to my room. 

She cast a look of meaning on the two, who were 
hardly to be prevented from following us up-stairs. 

“ Did you see the face Monsieur Pierre made at 
me, sir ? and how the forester took up his knife ? Of 
course they are afraid that I should tell of them. 
Good Lord ! as if one could not see with half an eye 
the state the place is in ! I did once write about it to 
Sweden ; but Sweden is a long way off — too long, it 
would appear, for things to be remedied in this castle. 
When one has seen it in better days, one feels the 
worm that eats through wood and silk gnawing at 
one’s very heart, sir ! ” 

“ It is high to climb,” she apologized, as we came 
to the third steep flight of stairs, “ but I thought I 
would put you here, as you might like to sleep in the 
rooms in which Count Ernest grew up to be the man 
he is, and which he always preferred to any others. 
And they are more comfortable too, for I look after 
them myself, and carefully dust out every corner. 
And to-morrow morning, when you awake, you can 
see his favorite tree by the window ; it has grown up 
2 


26 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


so high meanwhile, that by reaching out your hand 
you can lay hold of it. Ah, and well-a-day ! when we 
live to be so old, we live to see many a young child, 
and many a young tree, grow up and reach to heaven, 
and leave us wearily to climb after them ! ” 

With these words we came to the top, where a 
long low corridor ran past a range of garret-rooms, 
hardly above man’s height. A covey of newly -fledged 
bats, scared by the light, were flapping about against 
the ceiling. “ There must be a hole somewhere in the 
roof,” said the old lady, looking up, with a shake of 
her head. “ I have told the man to mend it ten times 
and more. But he always pretends he can find no 
hole, and thus it is with everything.” 

She opened a door, and showed me into a large 
low room, where a light was burning on a chiffonier, 
and where the atmosphere was purer and more lifelike 
than without. 

“ Here we are,” she said. “ Here he lived until he 
went on his travels with Monsieur Leclerc, and then 
again before he went to college ; and also the last 
time he was here. Everything is just as it used to be. 
That faded tapestry with the great hunting-pieces may 
have faded a trifle more ; and the writing-table there, 
with the brass mountings, by the window — the wood- 
worm is making sad havoc of it. Every time I come, 
I find above an inch of yellow dust to sweep away. 
That is his own pretty blue water-bottle ; and the 
gilded glass was a present from his tutor. I worked 
that little rug before the bed, to give him when he 
was confirmed ; and he never would allow it to be 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


27 


removed, long after the work was quite worn away. 
The bed is not his ; I took his down-stairs ; ” and, 
with a faint flush that brought back a touching tint 
of youth to her refined old face, she added : “ In that 
I sleep myself.” 

“ Indeed, my dear Mamsell Flor ! ” I said ; “ and 
he was worthy of being loved by a heart so faithful. 
He bore the stamp of his most ingenuous soul so 
clearly upon his noble brow, that even those who 
merely saw him pass could not choose but believe all 
good of him. By the time I knew him he had be- 
come reserved ; but what must he have been to you, 
who reared him from his birth, and were to him as a 
mother ! What happened to make him give up this 
place, and leave a home forever that used to be so 
dear to him ? ” 

She shook her head sadly, and sat down upon the 
sofa, as if the weight of all these rushing memories at 
once were too heavy to be borne standing. She re- 
mained a while absorbed in thought ; and then at last, 
taking an agate snuff-box from her pocket, she strength- 
ened herself with a pinch before she answered. 

“ It is a strange story, sir, which nobody can tell 
so well as I can ; and I may tell it now, that the grass 
is growing over many a younger head than this old 
foolish one of mine. It will be nine-and-forty years 
at Christmas since I went up these stairs for the first 
time. I was the schoolmaster’s daughter, a silly, green 
young thing, and I thought I was being taken straight 
to heaven when our gracious countess first took me 
into her service as a waiting-maid. The young count 


28 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


was not born then, nor ever likely to be : there was 
little love between my master and my mistress. To 
be sure, my lady would always have been willing to 
worship him, in spite of all he did to vex her. But 
they were an ill-matched pair ; and when Count 
Henry, who was almost always traveling about, came 
home in autumn for the shooting-season, he managed 
to make his pretty, patient wife still more unhappy 
than when he was away. 

“ I had not been two days in the castle before I 
knew that my lady was suffering from some sore 
trouble ; I used to find her pillow wet of mornings, 
and her eyes all swollen with crying. 

“ For you see, sir, the count was a gentleman who 
had a quick temper and a wild way of his own, and 
the countess was meekness itself ; she was too quiet 
for him, and he soon wearied of her. I suppose he 
had only married her to please his father ; some will- 
ful, imperious, dark-eyed lady would have done better 
for him — some Frenchwoman, or Spaniard, such as - 
often came to visit at the castle — who would have 
kept him at his wits’ end, and made him hate her mor- 
tally to-day, and love her desperately to-morrow. He 
only loved what gave him trouble ; he rode the wild- 
est horses, and shot the biggest stags. 

“ Our countess loved him far too well, and that 
was her misfortune ; and our young count was exactly 
like her, and that was his. Only she was small and 
delicate, and had a voice like the clearest bell. When 
at last, after many long years of waiting, she had 
hopes of being a mother, she looked like some fair 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


29 


angel, her joy shone so peacefully in her eyes ! And 
the count seemed kinder, and even staid here all the 
summer, to he present at the baby’s birth. When 
the nurse brought it to him, so small and weakly- 
looking, with its little yellow down upon its head, he 
said nothing, but put it back into its cradle, and left 
the room without a word. 

“ I saw that my lady was deeply hurt, and I felt 
so angry that I could not keep from saying, half to 
myself, ‘ Boys don’t come into the world on horse- 
back ! ’ But I repented directly, for my lady heard 
me, and sent me out of the room. A week after this 
she died. 

“ It was I who had to go and tell my master. He 
was sitting at the piano, which he played, oh, so 
beautifully ! I could have listened to him forever. 
It was early in the morning : he had watched through 
the night in my lady’s antechamber, and, as she seemed 
to be rather better, he had just gone up-stairs ; only, 
instead of going to bed, he sat down to play, and 
while he was playing she died. He shut down the 
piano without changing one feature of his face, and 
went down-stairs to look at his dead wife with the 
same proud step he always had ; and in the outer 
room, where our little master lay asleep in his cradle, 
he passed the poor babe as though it were only a dead 
image, as its poor mother was. When he came out 
again, he said to me : 

“ ‘ A wet-nurse must be found ; meantime, Flor, 
I give the child in charge to you. I hold you respon- 
sible for every proper care.’ 


30 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


44 And then he ordered his favorite horse, and rode 
away, and did not come home till evening. 

“ Three days after this they buried our countess 
in the cemetery of the town. The count went with 
the funeral on horseback ; and I could not help think- 
ing — God forgive me ! — 4 There he goes, prancing 
away like any conqueror, with his poor victim carried 
after him for his triumph.’ 

44 When the ceremony was over, and all the servants 
were assembled, eating their funeral feast in silence, 
and I was alone up-stairs, sitting by the little one’s 
cradle, and crying while I was singing him to sleep, in 
comes my master, stares at the babe a while, and says: 

44 4 They had to send the nurse away, I hear ; the 
child would not take to her at all ? ’ 4 No, sir, he 

wouldn’t.’ 

44 4 It will be hard to find another one to suit, in 
that little hole of a place. Do you think you could 
undertake to bring up the child yourself by hand, 
with milk and water, as they do in France ? You are 
a person I can depend upon — I had rather leave the 
child to you than to twenty wet-nurses.’ 

44 1 burst out crying, and took my master’s hand 
and kissed it; for when he pleased, he had a way with 
him, and a voice, that could turn the heart of his bit- 
terest enemies. 4 It is well,’ he said, and drew away 
his hand. 4 1 shall be some time away; you will write 
to me twice a year about the boy, and I shall give 
orders that no one shall interfere with you.’ That 
same day he left the castle, and for many a long year 
we saw no more of him. 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


31 


“ I will not weary you, sir, by telling everything 
— how my little master grew up to be a great boy — 
although I remember it all as if it were only yester- 
day; and many’s the lonesome hour I spend thinking 
over the past, from the first tooth he cut to the first 
bird he shot with his little gun. And when I watched 
him playing in the court with the dogs, or looked 
after him when he rode out on the bailiff’s horse, 
every muscle as firm and supple as a steel spring — 
and then that sweet face of his, and that dear little 
voice — I used to wonder at his father, who could go 
wandering about in foreign parts, rather than see his 
child grow up. To be sure, the boy did not take after 
him at all, except in his love for horses and field sports. 
For the rest, he was just his mother over again, both 
in face and temper. And so, when his father came 
and saw him at ten years old, he frowned, and looked 
as coldly on him as on a stranger. At night my dar- 
ling asked me, ‘Is papa always so grave-looking, 
Flor ? ’ And of course I could not tell him how it was. 

“ However, by-and-by, things began to mend. The 
count came every autumn for the shooting-season, and 
grew quite paternal with our boy; kind or affectionate 
he never was. I cannot call to mind that he ever 
kissed him, or even so much as stroked his cheek. 

“But he gave him, on his thirteenth birthday, a 
small dun pony, with a bushy mane like a thick 
clothes-brush, and a pretty saddle ; and then Count 
Ernest was taken to ride out with his papa, away 
through the forests, for whole days, and often to pay 
visits in the neighborhood, where the great folks were 


32 


COUNT ERNESTS HOME. 


always pleased to see the hoy. Nobody ever dared to 
say how like his mother he was, for that always vexed 
the count ; in general the countess was never spoken 
of, and the full-length picture of her was hung in a 
room that was never used. Only her son would go 
into it now and then, and loved it well ! He often 
made me talk about his mother. But do you know, 
sir, even then he had the sense to see that it was 
wisest not to mention her to his father ? He had found 
out that even Death had failed to make her dearer to 
him. And then, he may have seen that it was just the 
proudest and wildest among the beauties of the neigh- 
borhood (and there were several then) who attracted 
his father most. The count amused himself with them 
all, and was a very different man to what he was at 
home. And the boy could not make these doings suit 
with what he had heard of his mother. 

“•'Poor child!’ I thought. ‘Pray Heaven you 
may not get a step-mother who may suit your father 
better ! ’ 

“ However, that did not seem to be so likely, and 
by-and-by it came to be rumored that the count never 
intended to marry again at all. He had his loves in 
Paris, where he always spent the winter, and would 
not give them up. Of course, Count Ernest never 
heard a word of this ; he was as innocent as any girl 
could be ; and not even that horrid creature, Mon- 
sieur Pierre — who was then the count’s own man, and 
used to think it a good joke to make an honest woman 
blush by his loose talk — even he would affect propri- 
ety before the boy. 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


33 


“ A sly fox lie was, and knew how to accommo- 
date himself to every one. For the rest, he was a 
country lad from these parts, and his name was Peter ; 
but after he had been to Paris we never ventured to 
hint at that. He went everywhere with the count, 
and was indispensable to him. He was terribly afraid 
of him, and worshiped him as a god ; but he robbed 
him always. 

“ And now just fancy, sir ! when our young mas- 
ter was about twelve years old, the count had almost 
determined on giving him this wretch as a sort of 
tutor, and asked me what I thought of it. The boy 
must first learn French, he said, before he began his 
other studies. I felt as shocked as though he had 
thought of poisoning the child ; and so I took heart 
and spoke up, and told my master plainly what I 
thought of Monsieur Pierre, and I said I had rather 
lose my place than stay to see such disgraceful doings. 

“ The count let me have my say, and was not a bit 
angry. He only motioned me to go, and never said 
another word about the matter. But when he came 
home in the following September, he brought a stranger 
with him, whom he presented to us as our young mas- 
ter’s tutor. We called him Monsieur Leclerc, though 
that was not his real name ; he was a nobleman in 
needy circumstances, who had been glad to find a de- 
cent living — otherwise a harmless gentleman enough, 
who, to the very last day of his life, never could learn 
one word of German, so that we all of us soon picked 
up enough French to speak it fairly. 

“ He had some accomplishments which he used to 


34 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


teach the young count, such as dancing, fencing, and 
playing the flute ; and then they read some books to- 
gether ; hut Master Ernest once told me with a laugh 
that before they had read three pages Monsieur Le- 
clerc would fall asleep, and leave him to read on to 
himself till the great clock struck, when he would 
wake up with a start, and shake the powder from his 
sleeve, which he had sprinkled over with it while he 
was nodding, and say, ‘ Eh bien ! c’est 9a ! ’ and then 
he would fall asleep again. One thing he used to be 
very busy with, and that was a knack he had of mod- 
eling little figures in pink wax ; and he would paint 
them and varnish them so prettily that they really 
looked like life — little marquises and viscounts. He 
had a whole court of them, and would make them 
dance minuets, while a sweet little queen was sitting 
on a throne, looking on. Afterward I heard from 
Count Ernest that he had taken it into his head that 
Marie Antoinette had been in love with him ; he was 
as old as that, although he used to go tripping about 
like any dancing-master. 

“ But here I am, running on, sir, telling you all 
this nonsense, and you wanting to go to sleep ! Yes, 
when once I begin, I can find no end ; and, indeed, 
there is not a chair in the castle but could tell ever so 
long a story of its own. 

“Just there, where you are sitting now, sir, I 
stood one morning, and Master Ernest was sitting 
here on this very sofa ; he had been at a ball for the 
first time. It had been given at X. by the small offi- 
cials and chief burghers. He was just sixteen, and 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


35 


quite grown up, although he was slighter than when 
you knew him. ‘Well, Count Ernest,’ I said, ‘and 
how did you like it? Were there any pretty girls? 
And whom did you dance with ? And who got your 
posy at the cotillon ? ’ 

“ ‘ Flor,’ he said — he always called me Flor, and I 
was also the only person, until he married, to whom he 
ever used the ‘ thou ’ — ‘ Flor, it was all very pleasant ; 
and one there was most pleasant — ’ 

“ His eyes were sparkling, and he looked at me in 
a kind of shy pretty way I had never seen in him be- 
fore ; he even blushed a little. 

“‘Come come,’ I said, ‘Master Ernest, you make 
me curious. Was it one of the young ladies who had 
been invited, or one of the townspeople’s daughters ? ’ 
“ ‘ I am not going to betray myself any further, 
Flor,’ he said ; ‘ but she was very pretty and very wise, 
and talked so pleasantly. I only wish we were going 
to have another ball to-night ! ’ 

“ ‘ Why, that sounds quite alarming, Master Ernest,’ 
I said, and laughed— ‘ to stay up all night dancing and 
go riding all the morning, and then to want more danc- 
ing ! Our gracious count will be quite pleased ! And 
is this really to be your last word, and all your faith- 
ful Flor is to be allowed to hear ? ’ 

“‘My very last word, Flor ; it is my own secret, 
and I mean to keep it.’ 

“‘I must get hold of Monsieur Leclerc, then,’ I 
said ; ‘ he will be able to tell me whom you danced 
with oftenest.’ 

“‘Try him, Flor,’ cried the naughty boy, and 


36 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


laughed. ‘All my partners were the same to him — 
only jeunes Allemandes , jolies bourgeoises ! He looked 
after my pas , and never minded where my eyes went. 
Besides, he played ecarte all the evening with the di- 
rector of the salt-works. Ah ! Flor, I never thought 
there could he such sweet eyes in the world ; I used to 
think that your two were the sweetest ! ’ 

“ You see, sir, this was what I got for all my pains 
and my anxiety ! 

“ But this merry mood of his did not last. Next 
day he grew quiet and thoughtful, avoided all my 
questions, and shut himself up in his room at an un- 
usually early hour ; and then I heard him playing the 
flute for ever so long after. He could not get this girl 
out of his head — I saw that. At first he had felt no 
more than a pleasant smart, as it were, and could joke 
about it ; hut the fever followed. He could not hold 
out four-and-twenty hours, but ordered his horse and 
rode out alone, returning at night quite cast down. 
It was plain that he had not seen his flame, and had 
been too shy to find her out and pay her a visit. And 
so he rode to X. several times over, with more or less 
good luck. One night, when his heart was full, he 
could not refrain from telling me his adventure, as I 
was lighting him up-stairs to bed. His face was radi- 
ant ; but, good Lord ! to any other man, it would not 
have been worth the telling — Count Henry would only 
have said ‘Pshaw ! ’ — but to him it was a rare delight. 
Just at the gates he had met her, out walking with 
two of her young companions, and all three of them 
had roses in their hands. Just as he rode by, and 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


37 


bowed, his horse had given a jump, and the young 
lady had been so startled that she dropped a rose. ‘ I 
saw it, 5 said Master Ernest, ‘and in a moment I was 
out of my saddle, and had picked it up and given it 
her ; and she thanked me very kindly, and walked 
away toward the woods.’ 

“‘And you rode on, and the lady did not even 
give you a rose for your reward ? Any other man 
would have picked up the flower, and stuck it in his 
button-hole, and galloped off in triumph.’ 

“ He looked at me, and seemed quite struck. ‘ Flor,’ 
says he, ‘ I do believe you know more of these things 
than I, although you are a woman.’ 

“ ‘ More likely because I am a woman, Master Er- 
nest,’ I said. ‘ W ell, well, I see the young lady is badly 
off for mother-wit, or else she can’t abide you.’ 

“ Of course I was only joking ; for how could I 
think the girl existed who would not like him ? But 
for all that, it made him silent, and I saw that he 
really thought she did dislike him. 

“ Only once again did he ride over to X., and after 
that he staid at home, and was quite down-hearted; 
he spoke to nobody, but sat in his room writing — 
verses, as I believe — and played the flute, and pined 
away so that when Count Henry came back, he was 
quite angry about his looks, and scolded him, and told 
him he did not take exercise enough, and asked me if 
Count Ernest had been ailing. That he had a heart- 
ache I did not like to say ; he never would have for- 
given me, and Count Henry would have laughed. At 
last it was decided that our young count was to travel 


38 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


for a time with M. Leclerc, and both of them seemed 
to like the plan. ‘ Flor,’ said my boy, ‘ it is well that 
I leave this place. Life is become wearisome to me.’ 

“ ‘ God bless you, my dearest boy,’ I said ; ‘ the 
-world is so beautiful, they say, that I suppose one 
can’t long be sad in traveling.’ 

“ He looked at me with an unbelieving smile ; but 
afterward he wrote to me from Vienna that he was 
well, and often thought of me. God knows I thought 
of him, day and night. 

“ I did not get a sight of him again for three long 
years, and when he wrote to me from the great cities 
where he went to court, among all the fine folks — ‘ He 
will get properly spoiled,’ I thought, ‘ as befits his 
rank. I shall not know him again.’ But just the con- 
trary : when he came back at last in his twentieth 
year, without M. Leclerc, who had died in Russia of 
the climate, the very first word he spoke was : ‘ Flor, 
and how is Miss Mimi ? ’ That was a cat I had, sir, 
of whom he used to be almost jealous as a child. 

“ ‘ Returns thanks for kind inquiries, Master Er- 
nest,’ I said; ‘she has just kittened, and wdll be de- 
lighted, as we all are, to see your honor back again.’ 

“ ‘ I am afraid it is a delight that won’t last long, 
Flor,’ he said. And at night, when I was lighting him 
to bed, as I always did, he told me all about it : how 
he had done his father’s bidding, and been to see the 
great world, and he had seen enough of it to find it 
terribly tedious ; and how he had had some trouble in 
carrying his point, which was to go and study alone 
for a year or two. It was a shame, he said, the con- 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


39 


fusion that was in his brain. I could only stare at 
this, for to me he seemed a man in all things ; and 
cleverer, I thought, it was not possible to be, when I 
heard him talk with others. But he knew best, of 
course, and I did not contradict him then : for there 
were other things I was more curious to know. I 
asked him about the life he had been leading, and 
whether the fine ladies he had been dancing with were 
handsomer than the daughters of our townspeople. 
And look you, sir, at this he turned as red as a boy — 
he, the accomplished fine-grown gentleman, who had 
just come from living among the fine folks — and he 
only said, e Some perhaps, not many ; ’ and so I saw 
that old love does not always rust. The very next 
day he rode over to the town — I suppose to make in- 
quiries, and find out whether she was still unmarried. 
Of course I did not know, for I had never heard who 
she was. When he came back in the evening, he 
looked very grave. ‘ It is all over,’ I said to myself, 
£ and all the better that it is so ; what could have ever 
come of it ? ’ 

“ Between him and his father things were no bet- 
ter than they used to be. When I helped to wait at 
table, I saw that the count was always ready for a 
quarrel with his son, who could never say or do a sin- 
gle thing to please him. He seemed provoked to be 
in a manner forced to respect the lad, who never by 
any chance forgot himself, but only quietly defended 
his own opinion, or held his tongue — just as the 
blessed countess had always done, and the count was 
not fond of being reminded of her. Nothing would 


40 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


have pleased him better than to see his son just such 
another bold bird of prey as he himself still was, for 
all his half century. Never had he found a horse too 
wild, a woman too witty, or a sword too sharp, for 
him. He could not forgive the boy for being so mod- 
est. Indeed, I often thought — God forgive me ! — that 
he had rather have seen Count Ernest forget his duty 
to him as his father, if he only would have forgotten 
that the countess was his mother. Therefore the 
count always went back to talk of the good old times, 
when the world was merrier and less particular ; now 
it was only a world for sneaks and lubbers. And 
when he had drunk a glass beyond the common, he 
would tell us all sorts of love-adventures he had had 
when he was young ; while the young count would 
look straight before him, and hold his peace. I was 
horrified to hear him, and said to myself, ‘ Can a fa- 
ther really find it in his heart to be the tempter of 
his son, when he finds his innocence a reproach to 
him?’ 

“To be sure, I knew that was not the way to 
tempt my boy at all ; he did not even lose the respect 
he owed him as a father. Only it grieved him sadly 
never to see the slightest sign that his father loved 
him ; that I saw by his eyes, but he never spoke about 
it, not even to me, to whom he generally told every- 
thing. And so I was almost glad when he left us in 
a week to go to college, and never once came home 
for the next five years — much as he loved his home, 
and his woods, and everything about the place, and 
often as he used to inquire after them in his letters. 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


41 


u I say I was almost glad, and was more glad pres- 
ently. 

“ The young count may have been away for about 
three years when I fell into a bad illness ; and that 
left me a weakness in my limbs, so that I could hardly 
drag myself up and down the stairs. For I kept all 
the keys, and nobody but Mamsell Flor ever touched 
a thing in the cellars, store-rooms, or plate-chests. 
When the count came home in the autumn, and saw 
me crawling about the house with a stick — 4 Flor,’ he 
said, 4 you have been doing too much for your strength; 
you must have some assistance — a sort of housekeeper 
under you, to save you going up and down the stairs.’ 
So kind he was, you see, sir, in some things ; and, for 
all I could say against it, next day it appeared in the 
daily papers that a housekeeper was wanted at the 
castle. 

44 All sorts of women came, but none to please me. 
One or two among them I even suspected of coveting 
a higher place (or a lower, as one takes it) than that 
of housekeeper ; for the count was known to be a gal- 
lant gentleman. I was rather pleased that none of 
them could be found to suit ; I was always too par- 
ticular, and none of them did things as I liked to have 
them done. And so we had nearly forgotten that we 
had wanted one, when one afternoon in comes a tall, 
slight young woman, in deep mourning, with very 
weary eyes. She had come two days’ journey from a 
town where her father and mother, one after the other, 
had lately died, and left her entirely unprovided for. 
Her father had been a functionary of some impor- 


42 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


tance, and had lived upon his pay. Her only brother 
was an engineer, and was now employed in England 
on a railway, which he could not leave without the 
sacrifice of all his prospects. She had therefore writ- 
ten to him not to mind her ; she had found a situation 
in a noble family, and was well provided for — mean- 
ing, if she were not accepted here, to take even a lo w- 
er place. 

“Although everything I could learn about the poor 
child was entirely satisfactory, and though she passed 
the severest examination I could think of in household 
matters, I felt a something in my heart that warned 
me not to take her. I told her plainly I thought it 
might not be for her good. I said she was too young, 
and what more I could think of. And just as she was 
going, quite submissively, without any prayers or tears, 
I called her back, and kept her after all. In fact, I 
was only afraid she might please the count too well, 
for she was as fine a girl as you could see, with a 
splendid figure, and a high-bred face like nobody 
else’s ; and then such a weight of long brown hair, 
that could reach three times round her head. But I 
found that she had a grave, decided way with her, and 
that she was not easily to be put upon. And, besides, 
Count Henry was just then over head and ears in love, 
as M. Pierre had whispered, with a singer he had met 
in London, and had only broken from her chains for 
a short time, to hasten back to them as fast as ever he 
could. So he did not take much notice of the stranger 
when she took her place at the servants’ table for the 
first time ; he just glanced at her from head to foot, 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


43 


gave an approving nod, and sat all the evening alone, 
at the master’s table, playing with his ring, and letting 
the beautiful green stone glitter in the light, and M. 
Pierre told us it was a present from his London friend. 
And I suppose it was true, for when he came back 
next year the ring was gone, and M. Pierre told us 
strange stories about it, which you will not care to 
hear, sir. 

“ When the count first saw the girl again, Mamsell 
Gabrielle, as she was called, I watched his face atten- 
tively as she walked across the hall. He looked much 
as he used to do when the dealers brought him horses, 
and he had them trotted out into the yard. But he 
treated her just as he did the rest of us, only that he 
spoke to her less often. She had begun to bloom 
again, in the quiet life here among the woods, and 
with the exercise she took when she was busy about 
the house. She had left off mourning, and sometimes 
I even heard her singing in the little garden she had 
laid out with her own hands in the moat, that we might 
have our vegetables more handy. 

“ In this, as in everything else, she was clever, 
quiet, and independent. I may say I got to love her 
dearly, and thought we never should be able to do 
without her ; and yet we had done so long ! We used 
to sit together for many a pleasant hour, spinning and 
chatting. I used to talk to her of my dear Count 
Ernest, and read his letters to her ; and wdien Count 
Henry was at home, we would stand at the window 
till late at night, listening to his beautiful playing, 
and to the nightingales singing. Then she would tell 


44 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


me how her childhood had been passed, and of the 
happy life she had led when her parents were alive, 
and how well off they had been ; and also about her 
brother ; and she spoke of all this without any bitter- 
ness, and so I saw that she was quite contented, and 
that the longer she lived among us the more she liked 
us. 

“ And now, for the first time, I was glad when the 
winter came, and we were snowed up again by our- 
selves. When the count was here we had no peace, 
though he only received gentlemen, and was particu- 
lar about these. To be safe from the ladies of the 
neighborhood, he had left all the roads without re- 
pair, save only a few bridle-paths. But it did not 
come at all as I expected. The count did not leave 
the castle, and M. Pierre insinuated that it was be- 
cause he had never been able to forget that faithless 
love of his, and therefore preferred to live in soli- 
tude. I could not get this idea into my stupid old 
head, for I knew my master too well to believe that 
he could be so long cast down for such an amour as 
that. However, stay he did ; and the winter came, 
and snowed us up, and with us the count and M. 
Pierre. 

“ How he managed to get through those long win- 
ter days is more than I can tell, for he never had 
been fond of his books. We could hear him playing 
on the piano out of his own head for hours together, 
and then he used to take long rides into the woods ; 
and it was fine to see him come home, riding in a 
cloud of smoke from the nostrils of his snorting horse, 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


45 


his beard all tinkling with icicles, and his grand, 
proud face colored by the frosty air. He had always 
been a handsome man ; and if his hair was getting a 
trifle thinner and more gray, his eyes looked all the 
darker and more fiery. He must have found a sweet- 
heart in this neighborhood, I thought ; but we heard 
nothing, not even in this dull place, where we could 
hear the leaf fall ; market-women and butter- women 
took care of that. Visits or invitations there were none. 
I used to shake my head, and M. Pierre, who had 
been used to a gayer life, shook his. He had never 
dreamed that the count would hold out so long as 
Christmas. 

“ ‘ Mamsell Flor,’ he said^ ‘ il y a du mystbre, as 
sure as my name is Pierre ! * and he would whistle 
the Marseillaise and wink ; but, in fact, the rogue 
knew nothing. To pass the time, he took it into his 
head to make love to Mamsell Gabrielle, but he soon 
let that alone ; for, modest as she was, she yet had 
such a way of throwing back her head at times, you 
would have thought she was a duchess, and he found 
out that it was none of his Paris sewing-women he 
had to deal with. Something French he must have, 
and so he took to the Bordeaux wine in our cellars ; 
and often he was so drunk that he could not wait at 
table. But his master never said a word to him. 
The count was more gentle than he used to be ; he 
never said an angry word, and at Christmas he made 
each of us a present. With the new year he took to 
dining down- stairs in the hall ; and of an evening he 
came early, and sat reading the newspapers all alone 


46 


COUNT ERNESTS HOME. 


at the master’s table. But he did not like us to be 
silent ; on the contrary, after supper, he made us stay 
and sing. The second forester had a fine bass voice, 
and Mamsell Gabrielle could sing like the very wood- 
witch herself. We often sat up till past eleven, and 
it sounded beautifully in the echo of the great hall. 
Many a time I saw the count drop the paper and listen 
pensively, with his head leaning on his hand. But I 
always kept thinking of my own dear young count, 
and what a weary time he had been away ; and I 
used to talk of him to Mamsell Gabrielle till she 
sometimes fell asleep, which made me cross with 
her. 

“ For the rest, we wyre always the best of friends ; 
and it was no small shock to me when one morning 
she came to tell me that she was obliged to give up 
her place. She did not think the air was good for 
her ; she meant to try another. Well, she had slept 
very badly, I knew, the night before. She still looked 
feverish, and her eyes were red ; and as often as I 
called to her, she would begin trembling all over. 
She might have caught cold, for she had come home 
late from a walk in the woods the day before, and had 
gone straight to bed, without coming down to supper. 

‘ Child,’ I said, ‘ it will pass off. The air of this place 
is healthy ; and where will you find so easy a situa- 
tion, and so kind a master ? — not to speak of my own 
humble self.’ But the more I talked, the more posi- 
tive she grew, and I thought I should only make her 
worse : so I went up-stairs to my master, to tell him 
that Mamsell Gabrielle had just given warning. 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


47 


44 The count heard me out, and then he said, 4 Do 
you know any reason for her going, Flor ? 5 Then I 
began about her health. 4 What room have you given 
her ? ’ 4 1 took her into mine, sir,’ I said. 4 Your hon- 

or knows the rooms on the first story, just opposite 
my lady’s bedroom ; I have slept in them for twenty 
years and more, and I never found anything unwhole- 
some for one moment.’ 

44 He considered a while, and said, 4 If Mamsell 
Gabrielle chooses to go, of course we can’t prevent 
her, Flor ; she is her own mistress. But at least she 
shall not say that she lost her health in my service. 
Your rooms look to the forest, and the west winds 
come blowing against the windows. It must be damp ; 
and in winter there is not a finger’s breadth of sun- 
shine. While Mamsell Gabrielle remains, you will 
have to give her another room. Put her in those op- 
posite, that look into the court ; they have the morn- 
ing-sun full upon them ; and then you may advertise 
for another situation for her.’ 

44 1 stared at him. 4 1 am to put Mamsell Ga- 
brielle in the apartments where our gracious countess 
slept ? ’ 

44 He nodded. 4 1 will have it so,’ he said, shortly. 

44 4 But all the furniture is just as it was then,’ I 
went on, without minding his frown. 4 How can I 
give my blessed mistress’s things — her bed and table, 
and her toilet service — to a stranger ? ’ 

44 4 You can do as I bid you,’ he said, very quietly. 

4 Leave everything as it stands.’ 

44 4 And if the poor thing gets worse ’ — and I spoke 


48 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


more eagerly — 4 whom has she at hand to look after 
her ?’ 

“ 4 There is only the passage between you,’ he an- 
swered. 4 If Mamsell Gabrielle should be unwell, it 
will be very easy for you to nurse her.’ 

44 He sat down to the piano, and began to play, 
and so I was obliged to go. And I must say, fond 
as I was of Mamsell Gabrielle, it cut me to the heart 
to have to go down-stairs, and air those beautiful 
apartments, to put a servant in them. For that she 
was, the same as I was. And, moreover, I did not 
like her face When I told her what the count had been 
pleased to order. She first turned white, as if she had 
been frightened, and then she grew scarlet ; she curled 
her lip half scornfully, and said, 4 Very well ; God will 
not forget me, wherever you may please to put me ! ’ 
She took over her little bed with her, and would not 
put her bits of clothes in those beautiful inlaid draw- 
ers, but left them packed in her little trunk, all ready 
to go. And I liked that of her ; and I kissed her, and 
begged her pardon in my heart for having so grudged 
her my lady’s rooms. She sobbed a while on my shoul- 
der, and I had some little trouble in soothing her, but 
I laid it all upon the fever. That night I left my door 
ajar, to hear if she went quietly to sleep ; and all 
was quiet till about twelve o’clock. Then, all of a 
sudden, I thought I heard her talking loud and angrily. 
I jumped out of bed ; and all the time I was feeling 
for my slippers, I heard her talking on. I could not 
catch the words till I got into the passage, and then 
I distinctly heard her say, 4 1 am only a poor servant- 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


49 


girl ; but may the walls of this castle fall upon me, 
and crush me, rather than — ’ 

“I knocked at the door (which she had bolted by 
my advice), and screamed out, ‘ Gabrielle, child ! what 
is the matter ? Answer me, for the love of God ! 
Whom are you talking to ? Is the room haunted ? ’ 
No answer. I looked through the keyhole — nothing 
to be seen. I went on knocking and calling, but it 
was a long time before I could get an answer. ‘ Mam- 
sell Flor, is that you ? what makes you come so late ? ’ 
and presently I heard her unbolting the door. 

“ She stood before me in the darkness ; only the 
snow gave a faint light from the windows. I took her 
hand, and felt it trembling and ice-cold. ‘What 
makes you come to me so late, Mamsell Flor?’ she 
said. ‘ Have I been talking in my sleep ? Oh ! yes, 
I am ill ; I think I am in a fever ; just feel how my 
limbs are shaking ! ’ And with that she burst out 
crying. I got her to bed again as fast as ever I could, 
and sat up all night with her. 

“ In the morning she was too ill to rise, and did not 
get well again for more than a week. The count did 
not seem much concerned about it, though he sent M. 
Pierre to inquire after her. 

“ The first time she came down-stairs to supper, my 
master went up to her, and said a few words in a low 
voice, and then she walked silently and thoughtfully 
to her seat. And silent and thoughtful she remained, 
for the matter of that. But she slept quietly of nights, 
and did her work, as usual, like a pattern. She asked 
me now and then whether any answer had been made 
3 


50 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


to our advertisement. Our letters all went through 
M. Pierre’s hands, and he had heard of none. But 
she seemed in no hurry to go, and I was only too glad 
to have her stay. 

“ Spring came, and we were still without my dear 
young count. Instead of him, there arrived one day 
a very disagreeable stranger, a gentleman from Lon- 
don ; and indeed I don’t think that even my master 
was quite glad to see him. But he did his best to re- 
ceive him civilly, as was due to an .old acquaintance ; 
he rode with him all over the country, and he invited 
people to play cards with him. They would sit up 
gambling till daybreak — trying all the wines in the 
cellar, and never once coming down to the hall. 

“This went on for about a fortnight, and glad 
enough I was when I heard that the English lord was 
going away next morning. The last day they had been 
to dine at the baron’s, eight miles off ; it might be about 
nine o’clock when we heard their horses come patter- 
ing over the bridge. We were just at supper, and I 
was getting up to take a candle and light the gentle- 
man up-stairs ; but before we could leave the table 
they came in, the English gentleman foremost, with 
that look he had in his eyes when he had just dined. 
And the count came after him, with his riding- whip 
under his arm, and his spurs jingling with that heavy 
tread by which I knew that his spirit was up. 

“We all rise, and make our bows and courtesies. 
The English lord, keeping his hat upon his head, gives 
us a sort of condescending nod, and says, ( Devil take 
long rides, Harry ! I feel as stiff as a poker ! Don’t 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


51 


let us go up-stairs to-night ; let us have our grog down 
here by the chimney-corner. I incline to affability tow- 
ard these your trusty vassals ! ’ and he stared from 
one of us to the other, and never listened to what the 
count was saying to him in French, in a low voice. 
All at once he catches sight of Mamsell Gabrielle, and 
chuckles out quite loud. 4 Ha ! Harry, old boy ! ’ he 
cries ; 4 what an old fox you are ! do you keep such 
doves as these in your hen-house ? Foi de gentilhom- 
me ! ’ and he laughed so insolently that I felt the blood 
rush into my face. 4 Let us have this dove at supper, 
I say, with a good glass of Burgundy. You have 
plucked it long ago, of course ; ’ and then another 
great roar of laughter. My very heart stood still. 1 
looked at the poor girl — she was as white as the wall. 
And my master looked — sir, I cannot tell you how he 
looked. He went close up to the Englishman, where 
he stood laughing, and said out loud, 4 You will ask 
the young lady’s pardon, sir, this moment ; and then 
you will leave the room. I can protect my peo- 
ple from the insolence of any man, be he who he 
may ! ’ 

44 The lord did not seem to hear him, and kept star- 
ing at the girl. 4 By Jove ! ’ he said, speaking thick 
with drink ; 4 deuced neat-built she is ! and I have been 
in the house a week and more, and never yet — Ah ! 
Harry — I say — d — d sly old fox is Harry. Come, dear, 
don’t let me frighten you.’ And he stretched out his 
arm to take her round the waist, while the poor thing 
stood motionless against the wall, as if she had been 
struck by lightning, when we heard a sharp sound 


52 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


whistling through the air, and with a great oath the 
lord drew back his hand. The count had drawn a 
broad red stripe across it with his riding-whip. 

“ Sir, I need not tell you all that passed that night ; 
only, that by seven o’clock next morning my master 
had fought the stranger, without seconds, at a place 
they call the Wolf’s Gap. We heard the crack of the 
four shots in the still February morning, and half an 
hour afterward the count came home bleeding from 
his left hand. He did not send for a surgeon, but had 
it bound up by his valet, M. Pierre, who had been 
with him on the ground, and told us that the lord had 
not come off so easily, but had been able to get on 
horseback and ride on to the next town. 

“ What that poor thing, Gabrielle, said to it all ? 
Good Lord ! she held her peace, as if she had really 
been turned to stone that evening. And what rather 
surprised me was that she never thought of going to 
thank her master for what he had done ; but she 
never talked of leaving now. 

“ From that morning when we heard the shots she 
was so changed, I should scarcely have known her. 
She went through her work as usual, and was neither 
glad nor sad, only absent ; so absent, that of an even- 
ing she would sit for hours staring into the light, as 
if she were in a trance. And I must say these strange 
ways became her ; she grew handsomer from day to 
day. We every one of us noticed it. As to the 
younger functionaries about the place, there was not 
a single man of them who was not over head and ears 
in love with her. But she never seemed to see it, and 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 53 

not one of them had a kinder word to boast of than 
the others. 

“ Summer came, and brought no change. The 
count was still at the castle ; M. Pierre sitting with 
his bottle before him half the day ; and everybody 
wondering and conjecturing what was likely to come 
of this new style of living. The busy tongues had a 
fresh match ready every week for my master. For 
he had got to be far gayer ; he willingly accepted in- 
vitations in the neighborhood, and even gave little 
fetes in return, where he was all politeness. I had 
never known him to be in such a humor before, and I 
thanked God for it ; the more, as we expected our 
young count to come home in the autumn, and it 
would have broken my heart if they had not met in 
peace and kindness. 

“ And oh ! sir, that night, when my Count Ernest 
came, and his father rode out to meet him (he came 
from Berlin, after having passed his examination most 
brilliantly), I felt — his own mother could not have felt 
more. And when I saw him, so tall and handsome, 
riding beside his father through the triumphal arch 
of fir-trees the men had put up for him across the 
bridge, and the lovely transparency over the gate, 
with the word ‘ W elcome ! ’ and M. Pierre’s rockets 
whizzing right up into the sky, I burst into tears, and 
could not speak a word. I only took his hand, and 
kept kissing it again and again. 

“ And he was just the same as ever ; and he stroked 
my face, and had his old jokes with me, that were 
only between us two. Ah ! sir, that was a pleasant 


54 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


meeting! The count — I mean the father — walked 
up-stairs with his son, looking quite pleased and 
proud ; and indeed it was a son to be proud of. I 
felt so cross with Mamsell Gabrielle, when I asked 
her what she thought of our young count, and found 
she could not tell me whether he were dark or fair. 
But when I came to consider of it, I said to myself 
that, after all, this was better than falling in love with 
him ; for that was what I had always been afraid of. 
Poor short-sighted creatures that we are ! 

“ In the evening I was called up-stairs, to help to 
wait upon the gentlemen, who had their supper in 
Count Henry’s room. Monsieur Pierre’s fireworks 
had so heated him, that he was not to be got out of 
the cool cellars that night at all ; and I was only too 
happy to take his place, and have a good look at my 
young count. But my pleasure was soon spoiled, for 
the count his father began to talk again, as he used to 
do, of the good old times. ( The young folks of the 
present day,’ he said, ‘ are fit for nothing but to sit 
by the chimney-corner, with their noses on their 
books — worse still, to write themselves — even for the 
daily papers.’ I don’t remember all he said — only 
some things that appeared to me the worst — some 
things I shall not forget to my dying day. 

“ You must know, sir, that when Count Henry 
had been a half -grown lad, he had been taken to Paris 
by his father, just when the empire was at its height ; 
and as the old count (grandfather to our Count Er- 
nest) had always been of those to whom Napoleon 
was as a god, of course they met with the best recep- 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


55 


tion. The old count had been at Paris before, for 
some years, during the Revolution ; and most of those 
bad bloody men had been his friends ; and Count 
Henry began to talk of these. 4 Do you suppose,’ he 
said, 4 that the emperor could have fought these bat- 
tles with our good bourgeois of the present day? 
Wild beasts those were he had to tame, and to let 
loose upon his enemies. There was a scent of blood 
in the very air of Paris then, that was withering to 
the sicklier plants, and turned the weaker spirits faint. 
But to a resolute man the sulphurous atmosphere 
proved intoxicating. He would have dared a thou- 
sand devils. And as the men, so the women ; all had 
tasted blood — and blood makes brighter eyes than 
household dust. Just look at our present world,’ he 
said — 4 our German world at least — compared to that ! 
all so prim, precise, and regular, like the straight lines 
of a Dutch garden. Fathers, schoolmasters, and wise 
professors are there to trim it ; and if anything es- 
capes them there is the police. If ever the brute be- 
gins to show itself in man — in civilized man — quick 
comes the police with a summons to expel it. But 
the beast is not to be expelled ; it must have blood — 
if not in pailfuls, at least in drops ; it will turn 
sneakingly domestic, and suck it from the veins of its 
nearest neighbor. Out upon the small, sly, social 
vices of the day ! They are so shabby — worse, 
they are so stupid ! See what they will do for this 
puny generation when a time for action comes — for 
great deeds to be done by thorough men and genuine 
mettle. When a man says he shrinks from shedding 


56 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


blood, and would not crush a worm, I say it is his 
own blood he is so chary of and shrinks from shed- 
ding. At that time death was the Parisian’s famil- 
iar — his bosom friend ; together they fought and won 
the emperor’s great victories.’ And then my master 
went on to talk of a ball where his father had been ; 
they called it le bal des Zephires , because it had been 
given on a spot which had been a churchyard — I for- 
get the name of the church. And just above the 
skull and cross-bones upon the gateway, they had put 
up a transparency with the inscription, 4 Le bal des 
Zephires ; ’ and they had danced like mad upon the 
graves and tombstones till morning. 

“ All this time my dear young count sat grave and 
silent, opposite his father, whose discourse, I could 
plainly see, appeared as blasphemous to him as it did 
to me ; but he spoke very calmly, and beautiful were 
the things he said. ‘ Man has progressed since then,’ 
he said ; ‘ it requires more energy to build up than to 
destroy.’ In his opinion ‘ a world without a sense of 
veneration must necessarily decay and fall in pieces, 
like a building without cement ; ’ and more of the like 
which I have forgotten, more’s the pity ; but when he 
spoke, I used rather to watch his eyes than mind his 
lips ! His eyes would grow so clear, you could look 
right through them. Only one thing more I recollect; 
he said, 4 A generation that can dance on the graves 
of its fathers will assuredly care little for its children; 
a man who tramples upon the past is unworthy of a 
future.’ 

“As these words escaped him, he turned red and 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


57 


stopped short, fearful lest his father should be offend- 
ed by them. But, bless you, he was not used to mind 
such trifles ! 

“ ‘ Bah ! ’ says he ; ‘we are all the same, only we 
are quieter ; we do the same things, only not to the 
sound of fifes and trumpets — we have no piping to 
our dancing. In every generation man is selfish, and 
has a right to be. There was another kind of ball in 
those days ; they called it le bal des victimes. When 
the Convention had confiscated the property of the 
guillotined, it was returned to their heirs after the 9th 
Thermidor. Thus many of them held their lands by 
the grace of Robespierre. Young men began to live 
fast again, and to enjoy themselves. They gave balls 
where only those were admitted who could prove that 
some very near relation had been beheaded ; it was a 
sort of herald’s office to the scaffold. And to show 
their gratitude for their inheritance, they invented a 
peculiar mode of salutation. A gentleman would go 
up to a lady, and jerk his head forward, as if he 
dropped it, and the lady would do the same. They 
called it salut d la victime ; and all this with fiddling 
and dancing and wax-lights and champagne. I do 
not admire that style of thing myself ; it was a fash- 
ion like any other, and not a pretty one, I think ; but 
I really do see no improvement in young people’s 
babbling of the sanctity of family ties, and of their 
duty to their fathers and forefathers, and sighing in 
secret for their turn to come, even if without the con- 
nivance of a Robespierre.’ 

“ I left the room, for I could not hear him speak 


58 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


in such a way to such a son. I waited in the ante- 
chamber till Count Ernest came out to go to bed. He 
was sad and silent, and would have passed without 
noticing me, but I took up my light, and followed 
him. In the passage he suddenly stopped and looked 
eagerly up the staircase, that was well lighted with a 
two-branched lamp. 4 What now ? 5 thinks I — and 
then I saw Mamsell Gabrielle coming down from the 
loft with some plate she had been to fetch, and pass 
us on her way down-stairs. When she had quite dis- 
appeared — 4 Who is that, Flor ? 5 says he, quickly 
turning to me — 4 who is that lady ? 5 

44 When I told him, he shook his head. 4 Can it 
be the same ? 5 he murmured, 4 or can I be so far mis- 
taken ? 5 And then after a while, when I had come 
into his room with him — 4 Flor,’ he said, 4 I am right ; 
she was only on a visit to X. when she was at that 
ball, and she left it again soon after. JBoth parents, 
did you say ? And so poor, so friendless, that she was 
forced to go to service ? 5 

“ 4 She wants for nothing here , 5 I said, to pacify 
him ; for then I saw at once that she was that old 
flame of his, for whom he had pined so long. 4 My 
dear young master , 5 I said, 4 she could never be better 
off than she is here. His honor is very kind to her, 
and will have her treated with the greatest considera- 
tion and respect . 5 

44 But he did not seem to hear me ; he was sitting 
there in that great arm-chair by the open window — 
thinking and thinking, till he made me feel quite ner- 
vous. He appeared to be so troubled in his mind, as 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


59 


all the past came over him, and all that he thought he 
had forgotten. 

“ The old rooms again ; the tapestry with the 
hunting-scenes ; the furniture he had seen from his 
childhood ; the dark woods before the windows, and 
then his father’s horrid talk — if he forgot his poor old 
Flor a while, I am sure I could not wonder. I was 
about to steal quietly away and leave the room, when 
he saw me, and, rising, he came and laid his two 
hands upon my shoulders. 

“ 4 Flor,’ he said, ‘ if it should really come to pass 
— which is more than I dare to hope — what a wonder- 
ful, delightful dispensation it would be ! ’ 

“ ‘ If ichat should come to pass ? ’ says I ; for, fond 
as I was of the girl, the idea that she could ever be- 
come our gracious countess was a thing I never could 
have dreamed of. 

“ ‘ Let us leave it all to Providence, Flor,’ he said, 
very seriously. ‘ Good-night, Flor.’ 

“ And with that he went to the window again, and 
I to my lonely room, where, for all it was so quiet, I 
could not fall asleep for hours. 

“And so, next morning I overslept myself, and 
was quite ashamed when I saw the bright sun shining 
in at my window. My room just looked over the 
vegetable-beds that Mamsell Gabrielle had laid out ; 
and I saw* her busy among them, cutting what was 
needed for the table. I was just going to call to her, 
and tell her how long I had been sleeping, when I saw 
Count Ernest coming out of the wood, and going 
toward the little garden. He bowed to her, and I saw 


60 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


how she stood up and returned his how with due re- 
spect, hut quite naturally — not an idea of recognition 
— not even when he spoke to her ; nothing of the 
awkwardness of recollecting that her former partner 
now stood before her as her master. He appeared 
more embarrassed than she was. And as they crossed 
the garden, side by side, I could not help thinking to 
myself, ‘If God should so appoint it, a handsomer 
pair could not he found in all the world.’ I was quite 
willing that the poor child should have all that happi- 
ness and honor, if she only made my hoy as happy as 
he deserved to he. 

“ But you know, sir, ‘ man proposes, and God dis- 
poses,’ as the proverb says, and I soon found out. 

“I had not looked after them long, when M. 
Pierre came running to tell Count Ernest that his 
father was wanting him immediately, and soon after 
they rode away together ; and indeed, sir, it was quite 
a sight to see that handsome father on his wild black 
horse, and the slender son riding a light-brown Arab 
mare, as they galloped over the bridge into the wood. 
M. Pierre said they had been invited to the baron’s. 
There they had cast their hooks in haste for the son, 
when they found the father could not be made to bite; 
and indeed the three baronesses had not much time to 
lose ; but ‘ they reckon without the host,’ thinks I. 

“ As for Mamsell Gabrielle, I could not get much 
out of her. Many years ago she had been in X. on a 
visit to a friend, and there she had danced with our 
young master. It was plain that he had been so bash- 
ful that she had no idea of the impression she had 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


61 


made ; she talked of him as of any other young man. 
This made me cross, I must confess ; hut, to be sure, 
it was all quite right, and far better so ; and I resolved 
to have no hand whatever in the business, and neither 
by word nor hint to meddle with it, but to leave it 
entirely to Providence. 

“When the gentlemen came back that night, I 
had a good long talk with my young count at last. 
He was very merry. He described the foolish dressed- 
up ways of these three lemon-colored baronesses, who 
in those last five years had grown so young and bash- 
ful, so girlish and so giggling, and had pouted so 
prettily at his father for being so bad a neighbor, hint- 
ing at their hopes that the son might make amends ; 
and so, with one eye upon the father, and the other 
upon the son, altogether the attraction had been rath- 
er equivocal. 

“ ‘ Ah ! Flor,’ he said, ‘ it was just the thing to 
make me sick of the so-called proper matches. I half 
suspect my father to have taken me there on purpose 
to warn me from the daughters of the country, and 
make me feel the value of my liberty ; he knows how 
I hate the thoughts of going to Stockholm, where 
they want to send me with the legation. I would far 
rather stay at home among my woods, and only be a 
sportsman or a farmer. And you, Flor, you faithful 
soul, you would never bid me go. But when I just 
hinted at my wishes, treating them as a sort of ro- 
mantic whim, I saw at once that by staying I should 
lose the last remnant of my father’s good opinion ; 
and indeed I have no occasion ’ — he said this with a 


62 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


faltering in his voice that made my heart ache terribly 
— ‘ I have no occasion to put his affection to too hard 
a test. After all, Flor, one has but one father in this 
world.’ 

“ Poor boy ! it was the first time he ever showed 
how much it grieved him to be so little loved. 

“ ‘ My darling Count Ernest,’ I said, ‘ you know 
how I wish you all your heart desires ; but to live 
here in this solitude, at your age, one had needs be 
wonderfully happy, or desperately wretched.’ 

“ ‘ And which was your case, Flor ? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ I was happy,’ I said ; 4 for I had a dear little 
master to bring up, who never for a moment let me 
feel that I was not his own mother, but only a penni- 
less servant-girl.’ 

“ He took my hand, and said, ‘ Right, you dear 
old woman ! But if to live here one must needs have 
everything one wishes, or nothing, why should I de- 
spair of having everything ? ’ 

“ I held my tongue, for I did not care to begin 
first to speak of what he might be thinking needful to 
his happiness. He guessed what I was thinking of, 
for he said : 

“ ‘ To be sure, even if the greatest of all gifts were 
within my reach, who knows whether I should be al- 
lowed to take it ? Curious, how men contradict them- 
selves ! There is my father now, who never goes to 
court, because, he says, the nobility of to-day has noth- 
ing thorough-bred about it, if it be not in the stables. 
Yet how would he look if I were to go and propose 
giving him a daughter who was only a blameless girl, 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


63 


who had been his servant ? But I am talking non- 
sense. It is not likely that I shall be tempted to 
make such a proposal.’ 

“ ‘ The safest way not to be tempted is to go 
abroad,’ I said at last, as he sat silent and discouraged. 
‘For, my dear Count Ernest, if Mamsell Gabrielle 
appears to have no eyes for her young master, I am 
certain it is only because she is a servant-girl, and 
knows what she is about. It would be a thousand 
pities for the poor child if she were to suffer her heart 
to escape her through her eyes, for there would be no 
recalling it. I know her well ; she has a brave spirit 
of her own ; if she were to say, “ I will do this if I 
were to die for it,” she would do it and die, without a 
word.’ 

“ God knows, I found it hard to say all this to my 
darling boy ; and, moreover, presently I found that I 
had only been making matters worse. 

“ Pie had never hoped that the girl could love him, 
but now he interpreted her reserve more favorably ; 
he thought it might be forced — in self-defense — to 
enable her to stand more firm, and that perhaps she 
suffered from it no less than he did. And indeed I 
thought the same. I, too, thought her changed since 
Count Ernest had been at home ; she had grown 
graver and more absent. I often saw her sweet face 
change from white to red, without any sufficient cause. 
I meant to speak to my young count at the very first 
opportunity, and entreat him to come to some deci- 
sion, to settle it one way or the other. But the op- 
portunity did not come of itself, and I wanted heart 


64 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


to seek one. I loved him dearly, and it was hard for 
me to part with him so soon. 

“ And so a week passed, and then a fortnight, and 
three whole weeks, and the evil was growing daily 
before my eyes ; and other eyes saw it too. At least 
I heard from M. Pierre that the two counts had been 
talking of Stockholm again. Count Henry had in- 
sisted on Count Ernest’s going at once, and Count 
Ernest had begged for time to think about it. After 
that the father had taken care that they should be out 
all day, so that his son should find no time for the 
handsome Mamsell Gabrielle. ‘ C’est drole ,’ says M. 
Pierre, the cunning creature ; ‘ if my master were in 
love with the girl himself, he could not be more care- 
ful of her ; but I would lay my life that he has not 
the shadow of a liaison with her. It would be the 
first time he ever undertook such a thing without my 
help ; and how could he — in this castle all over ears 
and eyes ? No, I rather think there must be some- 
thing deeper in it. The girl’s mother, perhaps — you 
understand me. But this is strictly between us two, 
Mamsell Flor.’ All this was puzzling, but the end 
was very different to anything my stupid head had 
thought of. 

“ One evening in October — by some chance or 
other there had been no riding out that day — Count 
Henry was busy with the steward’s accounts, and 
Count Ernest had gone out with his gun and his mel- 
ancholy to the woods. I heard a strange voice in the 
court, speaking to one of the men, and inquiring for 
Mamsell Gabrielle. She had just gone to the garden, 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


65 


to cut some dahlias and china-asters for the supper- 
table. So down I go, to ask the stranger what he 
wants with her, and feel quite pleased to hear it is her 
brother come from England all the way to see her. 
He had a serious, steady, manly way with him, that 1 
rather liked, though his dress and manner were far 
below his sister’s ; indeed, his dress was almost shab- 
by. I gave him a hearty welcome, and told him how 
glad the dear girl would be to see him, and led him 
through the little postern-gate that opens to the moat 
and to the garden ; and there, standing among the 
tall flowers, we saw our Gabrielle. She knew him in 
an instant, but, I thought, for a brother and sister 
who had not met for years, they were not so very 
eager about it. 

“She turned pale, as though she were going to 
faint, and he held out his hand, saying a few words 
in a tone as if he pitied her. ‘It is the first time they 
have been together since they became orphans,’ thinks 
I ; ‘ I must go and leave them by themselves ; ’ and so 
I went back to my own room, and when I looked out 
of the window I still saw them standing as I had left 
them. He was saying something, but nothing pleas- 
ant, it appeared, earnestly, in a low voice, while she 
only hung her head and listened. 

“ In about ten minutes’ time Count Ernest came 
out of the wood, and saw the two as they stood to- 
gether. He went straight up to the stranger, and 
bowed to him politely, and I saw that he joined in 
their conversation. I could not hear what they said, 
they spoke so quietly. But at last the young count 


66 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


raised his voice : ‘You will think better of it, perhaps. 
How is it possible to decide so hastily ? What does 
your sister say ? What do you think of it yourself, 
Gabrielle ? Your sister is quite startled, you see, by 
this sudden break in the tenor of her life. Not even 
your brotherly affection for her should induce you to 
adopt any violent measures. Your sister is so highly 
valued by us, she is so necessary to us all, I am 
sure she has no reason to wish for any change. If you 
will remain with us a few days as our guest, you will 
convince yourself, I hope, that life may be very toler- 
able in this wilderness of ours.’ 

“ He held out his hand to the stranger, who was, 
I thought, rather slow to take it, and turned away, 
and, after saying a word or two I could not catch, 
walked toward the castle. 

“ Count Ernest remained standing beside Gabrielle, 
saying nothing at first, but only looking earnestly in 
her face, while she looked down. Then he began to 
speak fast and low, and in my heart I felt every word 
he said, though I heard nothing. Then she suddenly 
dropped her flowers, and, covering her face with her 
two hands, she ran away and left him, and I could see 
that she was crying bitterly. 

“ He stood looking after her till she disappeared 
among the woods ; he did not venture to follow her, 
but I saw that his face had that happy, thoughtful 
look he used to have long ago, when, after the long 
winter, he would stand watching the sun rise above 
the woods for the first time, and feel that the sweet 
spring season was at hand. 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


67 


“My heart melted, and I folded my hands and 
prayed — I hardly knew what I was praying for — till I 
heard the stranger’s voice in the passage, asking M. 
Pierre if he could be admitted to speak to Count 
Henry ; and there he staid a long time. I heard them 
walking up and down in the room above me, talking 
loud and angrily. When the stranger was gone, and 
Count Henry had gone out, M. Pierre came and told 
me what he had heard in the antechamber. 

“ And then, sir, I heard that the stranger had come 
all this way from England only to take his sister from 
us. And do you know what made him come ? That 
duel with the English lord was at the bottom of it all. 
It had appeared in the papers, and had been the talk 
in London for a day or two, and many of my master’s 
old adventures and love-affairs had been raked up 
again ; so this brother had had no peace for thinking 
of it, and at last he had started off, traveling day and 
night, meaning to fetch his sister away at once, and 
take her with him just as she stood, without stopping 
one moment longer. 

“ ‘ Mon cher ,’ had my master said, ‘ let me tell you 
that you are acting like a fool, to your own damage. 
I need not trouble myself to discuss with you which 
is likely to prove more injurious to your sister, my 
chastising a man who had insulted her, or your coming 
here to fetch her away at a moment’s notice, from a 
home where she is perfectly secure in the respect of 
all who know her, to take her to a strange place where 
there are numbers of such lords, who are not often 
likely to be so kind as to let you shoot them ; but, as 


68 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


I said before, that is your own affair. Mine is, to see 
that your sister’s liberty be respected, for she is of 
age ; further, that the legal term of warning be ob- 
served. I am not prepared to dismiss my servants at 
a day’s notice, just as they may think fit.’ 

“ The young man had found a thousand reasons to 
oppose to this, speaking in an abrupt, business-like 
way, and suffering himself to be so far carried away 
as at last to offer a sum of money for the rupture of 
the contract. And then my master had turned his 
back upon him, and gone out, leaving the bold man 
standing ; and he, after some consideration, had hur- 
ried away, and left the castle for the next town, prob- 
ably to consult the burgomaster as to the lengths the 
law would let him go in his attempts to force the 
count to give up his sister. 

“ With all these things buzzing in my head, I felt 
crosser than ever with M. Pierre, and had no ears for 
his stale jokes. I wanted to ask Gabrielle herself 
what she wished to do ; for, after all, that was the 
chief thing to be considered. So I went over to her 
room, to wait till she came back. It was all just as 
it used to be — the gilding on the mirrors and picture- 
frame, and on the furniture, and the beautiful hang- 
ings of green damask with a large raised pattern on 
it. And there was her plain servant’s bed under the 
silk curtains, and her trunk with her bits of clothes. 
I began to think how it would be if we had a young 
mistress living there ; and while I was pondering and 
looking at the picture of Count Henry over the sofa, 
painted when he was going to be married (I will show 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


69 


it to you to-morrow, sir), and seeing some dust upon 
the consoles, I took the corner of my apron and was 
going to wipe them, when I heard a noise like mice 
behind the hangings, and stood still to hear where it 
came from. Well, there is a great mirror in a broad 
old-fashioned frame reaching down to the ground (the 
fellow of it is up-stairs, in Count Henry’s room) ; be- 
hind this I heard a rustling and a creaking, and I was 
looking about to find the hole, when all of a sudden 
the floor begins to slide, as it were ; I see my face in 
the glass going round, as if I were giddy, the wall 
opens in the gaping frame, and who should step out 
but my own Count Ernest. 

“ If I was dreadfully startled, he was no less as- 
tonished. ‘ Why Flor ! ’ he cried, * good evening to 
you ! Are you surprised ? Here I come upon you 
like a thief in the night, in an odd way enough. I 
had no conception of such a thing. I wanted to speak 
to my father, and not finding him in his room I waited 
for him. I was determined to tell him all, and not to 
pass another night in a state of such uncertainty. To 
her I had spoken. Her brother wants to take her 
away, and I asked her whether she would find it so 
easy to go away and leave us, and if she thought she 
could be induced to stay for my sake ? Upon which 
she burst into tears and ran away. But I rather hope 
you were right, Flor, and that there really may be 
nothing to part us but the coat-of-arms above the 
gateway. As for that, we might do without it, and 
quietly settle in a happier home. Just as I was think- 
ing over what I would say to my father, my eye fell 


70 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


by chance on a part of the mirror where the frame 
appeared to have been damaged. I put my finger 
upon it mechanically, and was poking at it, when all 
at once the glass gave way, and then I saw a great 
gap staring me in the face. I had scarcely stepped 
through to see what was beyond it, when it closed 
upon me again and left me in the dark ; and finding 
neither spring nor handle to open it again, there was 
nothing for it but to grope my way straight on ; 
along a small passage, and then down a small wind- 
ing staircase all pitch-dark, and then I came to a dead 
halt against a wall. I must own that I had some 
slight shudderings and misgivings while I was feeling 
about for the spring, till I got hold of it. Deuce 
take these dungeons, Flor ! ’ he cried, quite amused. 
‘ Are there many of these moleworks in this place ? 
Whither have they led me ? Where am I now, Flor ? 
Surely — this is not your room, Flor? Is it — was it 
not — my mother’s? and now, now — does not — yes — 
does not Gabrielle — sleep — ’ 

“ He broke off short, and looked at me ; and, oh ! 
such a look of horror flared up in his frightened eyes. 
And then he closed them, as though he could not bear 
to look again on any human being. I myself felt 
more dead than alive, but I made an effort to speak — 
to say something. 

“ ‘ It was for her health,’ I said — ‘ only because the 
sun is on this room — that my master desired me to 
give it to Gabrielle. My dear boy — my darling — 
what is it you are thinking of ? What is there in 
this to trouble you so terribly ? That passage — you 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


71 


see, nobody ever knew of it — not even your father, 
probably. It is true the mechanism has not rusted — 
the springs slip smoothly into their grooves ; but that 
is no reason — my dear Count Ernest, you cannot think 
— how should damp or dust get at it, where we take 
such care? It is a curious coincidence — a chance, 5 
I said, and tried to feel convinced ; ‘ how could it be 
anything else? and she such a modest girl, and so 
particular about her honor ; and but a few months 
ago, my master 5 — And then I was fool enough — only 
think of the stupidity, sir — to go and rake up that 
story of the duel ; and in my flight I thought I was 
doing wonders to make him easy, and myself. But, 
even while I was talking, the scales were dropping 
from my eyes ; I saw how it was. Who ever does 
fight a duel for a servant after all ? When I thought 
of this, I came to stammering, and could find nothing 
wiser to go on with than, ‘ It would be beyond belief 
— it must be a mistake ; or else I could never trust 
one human creature on earth again — scarcely the Lord 
in heaven. 5 

“ He looked up at his father’s picture on the wall, 
and then at her little trunk, and I saw that he did 
not believe in a mistake. I had taken hold of his 
hand in my agitation, and I felt that it was quite 
numb and cold ; I don’t believe there was a pulse in 
it. ‘Flor, 5 he said, in a low voice, ‘you will never 
tell how it chanced — you will tell no living soul. 
Promise me, Flor. 5 

“I pressed his hand between both mine. I could 
not speak, for I felt as if ten millstones had fallen on 


72 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


my heart. He gently drew away his hand and left 
the room. Where he went, I never could find out. 
Nobody knew where the others were that evening. 
Count Henry did not come down to supper, Mamsell 
Gabrielle’s brother did not return, and she herself was 
walking in the woods long after dark. 

“ As soon as my trembling legs would carry me, 
I went over to my own room. I wanted to hear or 
to see nothing of anybody — least of all, of Mamsell 
Gabrielle. That evening I hated her with all my 
heart and soul. 

44 4 If the earth would only open and swallow her 
up ! ’ I thought to myself a hundred times — 4 if the 
woods would only fall upon her and crush her, before 
she should come between father and son, to estrange 
them still more than they already are ! ’ I upbraided 
myself bitterly for having been melted by her pale 
face and her mourning, and taken her into the house, 
although I had felt a secret warning at the time ; and 
then I thought of my own Count Ernest, how he was 
wandering all night about the woods half mad with 
grief, looking on his boyhood’s brightest dream — on 
the only thing he had ever set his heart on — as some 
unnatural sin ; perhaps — who knows ? — as an offense 
to all he held most sacred. 4 What will be the end of 
it all ? ’ I lamented to myself, as I wrung my hands, 
and I felt as if the coming morning were to dawn on 
the day of judgment ! 

44 When I heard the girl go past my door at bed- 
time, I shook all over with my hate and horror of her. 
If she had happened to come in, I really do not know 


COUNT ERNESTS HOME. 


73 


what ii should have done to her. If my boy had 
been poisoned by her, I don’t think I could have 
hated her more. I could not conceive how I had 
been so blind. 

“Not to call myself a fool, I called her all the 
names I knew. I abused her for the most horrid 
hypocrite, the slyest creature that ever insnared a man 
or deceived a woman. I tied a great silk handkerchief 
over my head, that I might not hear her in her room, 
or be an unwilling witness if anybody came to her in 
the night. 

“ If anybody did, I did not know it. I had lighted 
my lamp and taken out my hymn-book ; but, God for- 
give me, I did not know what I was reading. And 
I was hungry too, for I had not gone down to supper, 
and that made me feel still crosser with the girl. 

“ As for my master, I never thought of blaming 
anything he did. I had broken myself of that , years 
ago. At last I fell asleep with grief and hunger — at 
least, I suppose I did, for I was waked up suddenly 
by feeling a hand laid upon my shoulder. I could 
not hear, because I had my head tied up. 

“ The lamp had quite burned down, and the first 
gray of the morning light might be seen from the 
window. And beside my chair I saw Mamsell Ga- 
brielle standing. I stared at her, for she had her lit- 
tle straw bonnet on, and her brown shawl pinned 
across her chest, and her parasol in her hand. I really 
had some trouble to collect my thoughts and remem- 
ber what had happened. Meanwhile that sad, gentle 
face of hers had had time to melt the cruel crust of 
4 


n 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


hate that had gathered about my heart. I untied my 
handkerchief and got up. ‘ Good heavens ! what 
have you come here for ? Is it so late ? Have I been 
asleep ? ’ 

“ ‘ My dear Mamsell Flor,’ she said, ‘ it is hardly 
four o’clock ; I am very sorry to disturb you, but I 
have something to say to you, and I must say it. You 
were always so kind to me, it would hurt me to have 
you think ill of me when I am gone, if you did not 
know my reasons for the step I am about to take.’ 

“ ‘ What step ? ’ I cried ; 4 what are you going to 
do? You are ready dressed for a journey ; you don’t 
mean to go and leave the house in this way, in the 
dark and cold? Your brother has not come back to 
fetch you.’ 

“ ‘ I am going to him,’ she said ; ‘ I am going to 
beg him to take me away with him — to the very end 
of the world — rather than leave me here. Oh ! that 
I had only had the courage to do so sooner ! Miser- 
able I might have been, for I should have left my 
heart behind me, but I should not have been sinful ; 
and I could have looked you bravely in the face and 
said good-by to you, my dear kind friend, who have 
been a mother to me. I know you will forgive me 
for all I have done, you are so good and pitiful. 
But now you will shiver when you hear my name, 
and when you think of one who has been the cause of 
all this misery, and made your darling feel the great- 
est pain a man can feel. Dear Mamsell Flor, only 
yesterday he told me that he loved me ; and I — for 
many months I have been his father’s — ’ 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


75 


“ She stopped, as if in horror at the sound of her 
own words ; and I, who but yesterday had been so 
full of rage and hate, sir — a daughter of my own 
could hardly have melted me so soon. She stood be- 
fore me the very picture of wretchedness, her bosom 
heaving, her eyes drooping, as though she could not 
bear one ray of light to fall upon her and her misera- 
ble lost life. I sat like one struck dumb, and at last, 
only to say something — 

“ ‘ Won’t you take a seat ? ’ I said. ‘ You have a 
long way to go ; ’ and then immediately I blushed at 
my own silliness — such foolish tvords, you know, sir — 
so out of place. But she did not seem to hear me. 
After a pause, she said : 

“ f I did what I could to save myself in time ; you 
know that. I plainly saw my danger — plainly. I 
am not naturally careless. I am not a giddy girl, 
dear Flor. I walked into this with open eyes — that 
is, I thought I knew the path I had chosen ; I little 
dreamed that it could lead to this. Did I say with 
open eyes ? Yet I think they might be blinded by 
my tears — I cried so terribly when I saw his wound, 
and knew it was for me. He had often tried to make 
me love him, and I had told him more than once that 
I never would be his, except as his wedded wife. 
That I could never be, he told me ; he had a son who 
was not to be defrauded of his inheritance, and who 
would be shocked if he gave him a young stepmother. 
“ As it is, we never can agree,” he said ; “ and this 
would bring us to an open rupture.” He took some 
trouble to make this very plain to me, but he never 


76 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


succeeded in altering my resolution. I liad never 
heard of what he called a conscience-marriage, and all 
my principles rose up against it — not to speak of my 
pride, that revolted at the secrecy. If two persons 
are worthy of each other, I thought, and their con- 
sciences worthy of being called to witness what they 
do, why should they be secret ? 

“ ‘ I was in sore trouble day and night, and God 
knows how I struggled, Flor ! To hear that proud 
man — naturally so violent and so imperious — to hear 
him beg and beseech, and to see him suffer, and to go 
on living here in this solitary wilderness beside him, 
without a soul to help me, or any counsel, save my 
own weak heart — it was hard to bear, it was terrible ! 
And it was worse when he never spoke to me at all 
for months, nor even looked at me ; and all the while 
I could see how his dumb passion was wearing him 
out ! and then at last the blood from that wound ! — 
then I did feel my courage spent, and I gave myself 
up. Dear Flor, if there really be a woman’s pride, 
that could have taken her through all this unmoved — 
ordeals, I may say, by fire and water — if there be such 
courage, I hardly think I could covet it ! 

“ ‘ We took an oath,’ she went on ; ‘we pledged 
ourselves to eternal constancy and to secrecy. My 
mind was at peace — happy I was not. Not that I 
ever doubted him, whatever he may have done ; and 
indeed he never tried to make me think better of him 
than others. This I know — never will he love an- 
other woman now, nor I another man. But there 
was always a heavy presentiment of evil that was to 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


77 

come — and now it has come, and my life is at an 
end. 

“ ‘ It is not possible for me to remain where I am,’ 
she continued, ‘ between father and son. If Count 
Ernest had come back, and found me as his father’s 
lawful wife, he would have smothered his boyish flame 
at once, and all would have been plain and open. 
But now this wretched secrecy has borne its bitter 
fruits ! I have prayed to God to guide me, and I am 
resolved to take it all upon myself, and by leaving 
the house at once to save what there is yet to save. 
If I were to die, it would be the best thing I could 
do for all of us ; and so I must anticipate death, and 
take myself away, never to be heard of more. I 
will tell my brother all, and that shall be my penance. 
I do not mean to spare myself, for henceforth I shall 
have to live all my days alone. But it will be a com- 
fort to me, dear Flor, to think that you remember me 
and have a kindly feeling for me ! ’ 

“ I held her hand and stroked her cheek. ‘ I will 
never forget you, dear,’ I said. 1 Wherever you go, 
my heart will follow you ; ’ and it quite moved me to 
see a faint rose return to her pale cheeks with pleas- 
ure at hearing me speak so. She drew a deep breath, 
as if a load had been taken off her mind ; and then 
she begged me to keep her flight a secret. Afterward, 
when it was no longer to be concealed, I was to say 
that she had gone to her brother to persuade him to 
go back to England quietly, and that perhaps she 
would not come back that night. 

“ ‘ When I am safe across the channel, I will write 


78 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


to the count,’ she said ; 4 and as for you, my best and 
dearest friend, I shall always think of your love and 
goodness for me to my dying day.’ 

“ And she fell upon my neck, and cried so bitterly 
that I cried myself while I was trying to comfort her 
— saying the most stupid things — for my poor old 
head was all astray. I could hardly get out the words 
for sobbing, and only kept repeating 4 God bless you, 
poor dear ! — bless you ! — don’t forget your own old 
Flor, who wronged you so ! — you are far too good to 
be so wretched ! ’ 

“ As if, in this world, the good people were the 
best off ! As if my blessed mistress had not been an 
angel even before she died ! 

44 As soon as we heard the first birds singing in the 
woods, the pretty creature rose and dried her eyes, 
and gave me her hand to say good-by ; and, when at 
the door she turned round to nod to me again, she 
looked so lovely that I looked after her as if I had 
been her lover myself, and ran to the window to see 
her pass through the little gate and walk toward the 
wood, and to wave my hand to her again. The day 
was dawning gradually over the trees, which all stood 
still, as if asleep, till the dew fell, and then they be- 
gan to stir in the morning air. To this moment I 
can remember how I felt, as I put out my hot head to 
cool the fever in it, and let the fresh breeze blow over 
my hair. 4 God be praised ! who gave that poor girl 
the sense and courage to go at once and make an end 
of it ! ’ I thought one moment, and the next — 4 But 
has she a right to go ? If that be true about the oath 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


79 


she took, and the conscience-marriage, can she — can 
any woman — go and leave her husband as though her 
life were still her own to dispose of ? Yet, at every 
step she was taking farther out into the wide world 
and farther from the castle, I felt the weight on my 
heart loosening, and I imagined that, if only my poor 
dear boy were safe never to set eyes on her again, all 
might yet be well, and we might leave the rest to 
Providence. 

“ She must have got a good start by the time our 
people began to be stirring about the stables and the 
farm-buildings, and my master never got up till sev- 
eral hours later. I always was the earliest in the 
house, and had more than enough to do and to look 
after ; but that morning I could think of nothing at 
all ; my head was dazed, everything seemed running 
in it at once. I took a whole hour to plait up my 
poor wisps of hair before I could make up my mind 
to leave the room. For I thought I should meet the 
count, and, if he were to ask for Mamsell Gabrielle, 
I was sure to stammer and hesitate, and very likely 
to confess the whole. However, I could not hold out 
any longer, I wanted so much to go and see what my 
poor Count Ernest was about. I went along on tip- 
toe, and slowly up the stairs. My legs shook as though 
I had grown to eighty in a single night. 

“ I listened at the door of his room, and, hearing 
nothing, I softly opened it and went in. The room 
was empty, and the bed untouched ; but he must have 
spent the night here, for the candles were burned down 
to their sockets. It all looked so sad, it made me be- 


80 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


gin to cry again, as I went about setting things to 
rights and opening the windows. I looked out far 
over the tree-tops, and fell a-thinking. I can remem- 
ber that I almost went into a passion with that faded 
dog-boy there on the tapestry, who grins and looks so 
happy, showing all his teeth. ( Whatever happens, 
that fool must grin,’ I said ; sorrow had made me that 
distracted that even a picture on the wall could pro- 
voke me, sir. 

“ All at once I heard the piano in the room below 
me, long before the time when my master was used to 
rise. ‘ The whole world is topsy-turvy,’ I thought, as 
I went down-stairs. Now that I was sure not to meet 
the count, I wanted to go and look for my dear boy 
all over the castle and about the grounds. 

“When I came to the door of my lady’s room, 
where we had put Mamsell Gabrielle, I could not 
pass it. I felt drawn in against my will, as it were ; 
it was like those places were dreadful murders have 
been committed. I stood staring at the glass, and 
talking to myself like a mad woman. We women are 
a weak and a curious race, you know, sir, and have a 
right to be, as our mother Eve was before us ; and I 
could not help fumbling about till I had found the 
mechanism ; and then I thought I would take one 
peep at the hidden passage — just one peep, I thought. 
But, when the mirror turned upon its hinges, I had one 
foot over without intending it, and then the other ; 
and I found myself walking on, hardly venturing to 
breathe, and the door had closed behind me of itself. 
I was not frightened. If I really never did get out, 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


81 


or saw the light of day again, what would it matter? 
What is there in the world to please me, where all is 
temptation and disappointment, and where one man 
plays the part of Lucifer to the other ? 

“ I saw a faint streak of light falling through a 
crack, and so I went on till I came to the steps ; I 
went up cautiously ; I heard the piano getting louder 
and louder as I went up. While I live, I shall not 
forget that strange feeling — the dark dank air, like a 
prison, and the beautiful music pealing above my head. 

“ I felt as if I were in my grave, and thousands of 
birds were singing over the sod, and I could hear them 
and understand them all. At the last step I stood 
still. ‘Where does this lead to?’ I thought, ‘and 
shall I be able to get out ? 5 and I turned cold all over, 
when I saw that this passage could only lead into 
Count Henry’s morning-room, just where the piano 
stood. If I were to walk in suddenly, what would he 
think of me ? 

“ Then I saw the light shining through a hole in the 
wall, and that made me go on again. The mirror had 
been injured at one place, which looked like a spot or 
blemish, and it had often vexed me while I was clean- 
ing it ; and now I saw that it had been done on pur- 
pose, to enable one to look into the room and see that 
all was safe, before putting the springs in motion and 
opening the door. 

“I crept close up and peeped in. Count Henry 
was sitting at the piano, in his short velvet morning- 
dress, with his back turned to the mirror, and all the 
windows were standing wide open. I was going to 


82 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


steal away again, but the music bewitched me, as it 
were ; I never could get enough of it. It was easy 
enough for it to steal away the heart of a poor young 
lonely creature like Gabrielle, when it could so be- 
wilder an old thing like me ! It all came of itself 
while he was playing, out of his own head. It was as 
if he were talking with the spirits within him, and 
soothing them when he felt his fits of passion coming 
on ; and at those times the music sounded like two 
distinct and separate voices discoursing — angry first, 
and quarreling, and then at peace. 

“ What storm was raging in him that morning I 
do not know. He could not be thinking of Gabrielle’s 
brother — he was not uneasy about that, for he was 
fully persuaded that she herself would never leave 
him ; neither of Count Ernest, for what did he know 
of what he was feeling ? But he must have had a 
kind of presentiment that some great event was im- 
pending, for the music was like the sound of a coming 
storm, and one could hear the first roll of the distant 
thunder. It made me feel so frightened and uncom- 
fortable — partly because of the confined air in that 
little passage — that I stood up, and was just going 
away, when the door of the ante-chamber opened, and 
my dear Count Ernest came in. 

“ His father looked round, but he made a sign to 
beg him not to let himself be disturbed, but to go on 
playing, and he sat down in an arm-chair to wait ; he 
sat so that I could see his face straight before me. 
There was something so grave and grand about it, 
and yet so subdued and peaceful — he looked hand- 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


83 


somer than I ever saw him. He did not raise his eyes 
to the secret door ; it was pain and grief to him to 
know that it was there. He was very pale, and he 
looked down as if he were studying the pattern of the 
inlaid floor, with a look of forced cheerfulness that 
made my heart ache. And, though he never moved 
an eyelid, I saw his eyes getting wet, and then two 
large tears glittering beneath his eyelashes, while his 
mouth remained as quiet and sweet as ever. I saw 
that the music was too much for him, and almost 
overcame him. His father did not seem to notice it ; 
he went on playing for some time longer, until at last, 
closing with a magnificent unison of all the voices, he 
shut down the piano, got up, and took a few hasty 
turns about the room. He never looked at his son 
(in general he seldom did) ; but still he appeared to 
be in a good-humor, and took up a new fowling-piece 
that was lying on the table to show it him. 

“ 4 You are just come when I wanted you,’ he said. 

4 I was going to send over Pierre to ask whether you 
would like to take a ride with me through the forest. 
Pierre tried this gun yesterday, and says he thinks it 
is even better than my English one ; did he speak to 
you about it ? ’ 

44 ‘ Ho, he did not,’ and the young count rose also ; 

{ and I rather fear I shall not be able to accompany 
you, my dear father. I have come to a sudden decis- 
ion about Stockholm, and I mean to go at once. You 
say very justly that it would be far too soon for me 
to stay here and bury myself among these woods, 
without at least one trial of what I may be fit for in 


84 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


this world. And I am come to say good-by — that is, 
if you still approve of my decision as much as I hoped 
you would, concluding from the wishes you have so 
frequently expressed.’ 

“ He spoke calmly and cheerfully ; but oh ! it was 
woe to me to hear him ! I could hear every word 
through the slight partition, and I held my breath, 
for I even fancied they must hear how my heart was 
beating. I did not dare to move, and so I stayed 
and heard all they said. I found I was to lose him 
again ; and when to see him, who could tell ? — never 
perhaps. I knew what made him go. He was resolved 
never to see the girl again. But she was gone, and 
what would they do when they found that out ! When 
I tried to think of this, my five senses failed me, and 
so I rather listened to what they were saying. I can- 
not repeat every word, but it was beautiful to hear 
my young count explaining to his father how the post 
at Stockholm had just then acquired a great impor- 
tance, in consequence of our commercial relations, 
and what not ? and how clearly he saw it all, and knew 
what he had to do. 

“ Meanwhile the elder count was walking up and 
down, and never spoke a word till he had done. Then 
he stopped short before his son, and held out his hand 
to him. ‘You are perfectly right in all you say, and 
I entirely approve of the step you are about to take,’ 
he said. ‘ I know it is a sacrifice to my wishes on 
your part, for, in fact you are not a man of action ; 
you have far more of the German scholar in you. 
But in your new position you will soon have shaken 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


85 


off the last vestige of school-dust ; and by-and-by 
you will agree with me, that my wishes were entirely 
for your own good. When do you start ? ’ 

“ ‘ This very day, if you approve, sir ; I would 
take Fatime as far as the station, and Pierre could 
take the horses back in the evening. My things can 
be sent after me.’ 

“ His father nodded, and again they remained silent 
for a time. My Ernest had still something weighing 
heavy on his mind — that I saw by his face. 

“ At last he said : ‘ And you, my dear father, what 
have you decided upon doing ? What are your plans for 
the present ? Do you mean to spend the winter here ? ’ 
“ ‘ I rather think so. I fancy I have had enough 
of being tossed about. A quiet time in port to rest 
would do no harm for a change.’ 

“ ‘ This is a solitary place,’ returned his son, ‘ and 
our neighbors are not much resource. Will you laugh 
at me if I ask you a strange question ? Did it never 
occur to you to think of marrying again ? ’ 

“The count gave a loud laugh. ‘Well, I must 
say, you do ask searching questions,’ he said. ‘You 
would like to do a good action before you go, and 
see that your father is well provided for. Give it up, 
my son, give it up ! A second marriage is but a sec- 
ond folly ; and, if age cannot save us from folly, youth 
at least should not tempt us to it.’ 

“‘You are not speaking seriously, sir,’ returned 
Count Ernest ; ‘ I have found you younger this time 
than when I left you five years ago. If you really 
should decide on settling here, only consider how a 


86 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


young mistress would improve the place — one who 
would prevent your growing old before your time ; 
and, when that time does come in good earnest, would 
make those quiet years pleasant to you. I know that 
I leave you in the best of hands,’ he went on ; 4 our 
Flor is fidelity itself, but you require more than she 
can do for you, and, as I cannot tell when I may come 
back, I — ’ 

“ He stopped short, and I saw that he had some 
trouble to hide his emotion. His father turned a 
searching look on him, and after a pause he dryly an- 
swered : 4 Enough of this ; I am very well as I am ; 
and, though I may find other ways than you would of 
combating dullness, I shall not run to seed as you sup- 
pose. There are foxes enough to be shot, while my 
hand can hold a gun ; and, when the end of all ends 
comes, I shall sit down and write my memoirs, as a 
pattern to this generation of propriety — that is, a pat- 
tern to be avoided.’ 

44 He now evidently expected his son to take his 
leave, but Count Ernest stood still, with his eyes fixed 
on his father’s face. Count Henry did not seem to 
feel quite easy under them ; he looked annoyed, and 
added, as if in jest : 4 Well, and don’t these prospects 
please you ? I do believe you have a match all ready 
made for me, and intend to show me that your talents 
in the diplomatic line are greater than I should have 
supposed. May I ask who the lady is ? I confess I 
am getting curious. Is it young F., with her Madonna 
eyes, and her liberal portion of freckles ? or Countess 
C., with her shortened leg, and her never-ending gig- 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


87 


gle, who would persuade herself and the world (though 
the world knows better) that she has not seen sixteen 
summers ? ’ And so he went on, through the list of 
all the young ladies in the neighborhood, caricaturing 
them with a few sharp strokes, but without succeeding 
in moving a muscle of his son’s countenance. 

“When he came to the end: ‘You are on the 
wrong track, dear father,’ he said ; ‘ it is no fine lady 
I am thinking of, nor should I like to see any of these 
in this house as its mistress. But there is a prize 
much nearer home, that I should be glad to see you 
win. Have you really never noticed the young lady 
who helps our Flor to rule the house ? She is fond of 
you, I know. Her passionate attachment to you has 
grown too strong for her to conceal it even from her- 
self.’ 

“ The count stood rooted to the ground, and I saw 
a dark frown gather on his brow. But he always 
knew how to command himself. With a laugh that 
did not come from his heart, he cried, ‘ Mort de ma 
vie ! — Mamsell Gabrielle ! Why, that would in- 
deed be a triumph of the new school over the old, if 
you have managed to discover more in these three 
weeks than I in the last two years ! ’ 

“ ‘ To be candid with you, sir,’ said Count Ernest, 
‘ I must honestly confess that I did not discover this 
until last night — not, at least, with any certainty. I 
was witness to the poor girl’s struggle when her brother 
wanted her to go with him, and I saw that it would 
be the death of her to part from you.’ 

“ ‘ Part from me ! — stuff and nonsense ! ’ cried his 


88 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


father. 4 That brother of hers startled her — he is a 
hard-headed fool. It was his coming here so fast and 
furious, as if it were a matter of life and death, that 
frightened the girl out of her senses. I tell you, you 
are mistaken. And besides, who says she is to go ? 
She is of age, and can do as she likes ; I mean to 
take care that she does — her free-will shall be pro- 
tected.’ 

44 Another pause, and then the son : 4 Are you sure 
she may not have to suffer for being so protected ? 
Let me own to you that I went oyer to X. last night, 
to speak to this brother of hers. He told me how 
chivalrous you had been in defending his sister on one 
occasion, and also what had been said about it at the 
time. If you do not intend to sacrifice your protegee's 
good name for ever, it is indeed high time to dismiss 
her, or to give her a name that will effectually protect 
her. Dearest father,’ he continued, while my master 
sat silent, angrily gnawing his lip, 4 do not be angry 
with me for venturing to interfere with any of your 
decisions. I have set my heart on seeing you in pos- 
session of this good fortune, which has been so long 
within your reach, though you would not see it. Of 
course, I do not know how you may feel toward this 
young lady ; whether you would care to see her go 
out alone into an uncertain world — alone with her 
secret, her grief, and her love for you. But, if you 
really have one spark of feeling for her, why not 
take a creature so fair and good, and make her your 
own forever ? If you do decide in haste, I am cer- 
tain that you will not repent at leisure.’ 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


89 


“ All this time I had never taken my eyes off my 
darling’s face, and I saw it glowing and reddening, 
till his eyes were all glittering with tears. 

“ He was standing before his father, and had taken 
one of his hands in his. ‘ Strange boy ! ’ his father 
said ; ‘ I do believe you mean it. You would like to 
make me leap into this adventure blindfold, as my own 
folly has often made me do in others. What is there 
about this girl to make you plead her cause so passion- 
ately? And, when I come to think of it, your pro- 
posal is not so utterly to be despised. I have only to 
think of our high-born neighbors, and of their indig- 
nation when they hear that Count has married 

his housekeeper, to feel ready for the wedding at once. 
It would be a satisfaction, but I am afraid it is a sat- 
isfaction of which I must deprive myself. Not that 
there is anything in your taste to be objected to ; she 
comes of a respectable family, and has manners that 
many a countess might envy her. Yet it won’t do, 
Ernest ; give it up. Yes, I will talk to her brother ; 
we will do all that is right to be done ; only do you 
go away now, and leave me to myself for half an hour. 
Why,’ he went on, as his son still kept hold of his 
hand ; ‘ are you not satisfied that I should have done 
this proposal of yours the honor of thinking it worth 
a moment’s consideration ? Enough of this, I say 
again. I acknowledge the kindness of your heart, 
that would be glad to see me happy ; but hearts are 
giddy things, and are apt to come to their senses after 
it is too late.’ 

“ And he talked on in this style, without ever once 


90 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


looking at his son. Then he got up, went to the pi- 
ano, struck a chord or two, went to the window, and 
shut it hastily. 

“ 4 There is something in this you will not tell me,’ 
said his son. 4 You are disturbed. You have a reason 
you will not give me for not doing as I request. I 
know your way of looking on these disparities of posi- 
tion ; therefore it is not that ; and what else can it 
be ? For I see by your agitation that the young lady 
is not indifferent to you.’ 

“ He waited for an answer, in vain. 4 1 know,’ at 
length he said, very sadly, in a tone of deep dejection, 
4 1 have never been so fortunate as to find my way to 
your confidence, though, God knows, I have sought it 
with all my heart ; and I never regretted this so much 
as I do now. But I have been forgetting myself — 
this conversation has lasted too long already. You 
think it absurd that a son should take his father’s hap- 
piness to heart. I have only now to beg your pardon, 
and to say good-by.’ 

The count turned from the window to look at his 
son from head to foot, as if he would read through 
him. 

44 Go out into the world, my son, and let the bitter 
blasts from the so-called summits of society blow 
over your brains a while, and cool down the efferves- 
cence of that strange, fanciful heart of yours, and 
blow away the last of your romantic prejudices. You 
will soon come and thank me for not having con- 
sented to give you a young stepmother, and perhaps a 
batch of younger brothers. Your fortune would never 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


91 


be sufficient to enable you to move with ease in the 
society to which you belong, if you had to divide it 
with a young stepmother, and possibly with other 
children ; far less if you gave it up to them, and had 
to live on your mother’s portion only. On the other 
hand, a woman I had made a countess of I should 
not choose to leave a beggar. Now, have I spoken 
plainly ? and do we understand each other ? ’ 

“‘We do,’ slowly repeated Count Ernest, with a 
faltering voice ; and, after a moment of meditation, 
he went up to the table, where among other things 
there was an inkstand, and, taking out a sheet of paper 
from his father’s portfolio, he wrote a line or two, 
standing where he was. He had hardly finished when 
the elder count came up. ‘ What on earth are you 
about ? What is this new fancy of yours ? ’ he cried. 

‘ I do believe you are getting up a comedy. I hope 
you do not mean — ’ 

“ ‘ My dear father,’ said Count Ernest, placing the 
written paper before him, ‘ let me entreat you to do 
nothing hasty. See here, what I have written ; and 
if you really would make me happy before I go, and 
do me the greatest favor, please put your seal and 
signature here, as a ratification of mine. I have some- 
times thought I must seem stranger to you than any 
stranger, our ways of thinking are so different. At 
the age when some grow up to be their fathers’ friends, 
I have been pained to find how little I have been 
yours. You have given me this moment a strong 
proof of your affection. But if you repent of it, if 
you would annul it, and prove to me that I am still 


92 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


as far from understanding you, or doing anything to 
make you happy, as my poor mother always was — 
then, I say, destroy that paper.’ 

“ Count Henry took it, and I saw his hand trem- 
ble as he held it up to read it. ‘ Ernest,’ he said, 
‘ this is simply impossible ; there never can be any 
question of your giving up this property, to have it 
settled on a stepmother and her heirs ; it can’t be 
done.’ 

“ The paper fell upon the table, and the two stood 
side by side for a minute without speaking, and that 
sunny room was still as death. 

“All at once we heard a quick step coming through 
the ante-chamber, and Pierre came, out of breath, to 
say : ‘ Monsieur le Comte ! Is M. le Comte aware 
that Mamsell Gabrielle is missing, and that the ran- 
ger’s assistant met her before daybreak, walking on 
the road to X. ; and that Mamsell Flor has been 
missed as well, and looked for all over the house with- 
out being found ? ’ 

“ * The caleche to the door this instant ! ’ cried my 
master, snatching at his hat, that lay on a chair. 
‘ Stay,’ he called after the man who was already on 
the threshold ; ‘ my horse — have it saddled and brought 
round — allons ! ’ 

“ ‘ I will accompany you, sir, if I may,’ said Count 
Ernest ; ‘ as it is, I am all ready for the road.’ And 
he would have hurried away after the servant, but his 
father held him back, looked in his face without say- 
ing a word, and then, suddenly folding him in his 
arms, they stood for a moment heart to heart. After 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


93 


that I saw no more ; my eyes were running over, and 
everything was swimming before me. By the time I 
had got them dry again — and that was not easy — the 
room was empty, and only the paper on the table was 
there to tell me that it had not been all a dream. 

“ How I felt as I got down the winding staircase, 
you may fancy, sir. When I had found the door 
again, groping about with my trembling hands, and 
stepped out of the dark into the broad daylight again, 
I felt as if it were quite a new world I was coming 
to. I heard the horses’ hoofs on the pavement of the 
court, and I saw from the window father and son gal- 
loping over the bridge together, while the light car- 
riage that was going to fetch our Gabrielle was driv- 
ing gayly after them in the morning sunshine. 

“ Yes, sir, and it was a pretty sight to see : that 
poor thing that had stolen out of the house by the 
back-gate, before daybreak, and all alone, coming 
back joyfully by the light of noonday, driving over 
the great drawbridge, and her master on his grand 
horse, riding proudly by her side, and him leaping 
from his saddle, to open the carriage-door, and give 
her his arm to lead her up the steps ! 

“ And there was a still finer sight to be seen eight 
days after, when there was a fine wedding at the cas- 
tle. They were married in the great saloon, and the 
dinner was down-stairs in the hall ; and there sat 
Count Henry at the master’s table, with his beautiful 
young wife and her brother ; and all of us dined at 
the other table, with flowers and wreaths all over, and 
the band from X. playing in the gallery. They danced 


94 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


till long past twelve o’clock, and the young countess 
danced with every one, from the steward to the assist- 
ant ranger ; and it was talked of all over the country, 
ever so long after. But to me, sir, the best of all was 
wanting, and I cannot say that I felt really happy for 
a single moment. For my dear Count Ernest had not 
returned with them that morning, and I had not even 
been able to take leave of him ! And, all the time 
the band was playing, I could not keep from thinking 
of him, at sea, on his way to Sweden, in that cold 
night, hearing nothing but the salt waves beating 
against the ship, and the rough winds blowing. 

“When the wedding gayeties were over, every- 
thing in the castle went on as it had done before ; 
only that we spoke of our gracious countess instead 
of Mamsell Gabrielle, and that the new-married pair 
rode out every day, and that often when my master 
played his young wife sang. 

“We had no visits, for those my master and mis- 
tress paid among the families of the neighborhood 
were not returned ; at which our master only laughed, 
and indeed it seemed as if nothing ever could succeed 
in spoiling his temper again. If anything occurred 
among the servants, or in the stables, which we would 
have been afraid to tell him formerly, we had only to 
speak to the countess, who always knew how to make 
things smooth, and to charm away his angry mood. 

“ Only once, I heard her beg and beseech in vain. 
It was soon after New-Year’s-day ; the snow was very 
deep, and we lay buried among the woods, as if we 
had been walled up. An invitation came from the 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


95 


grand-duke to a ball at court. It was a ball where 
all the grand folks of the whole country came together. 
Last winter our master had gone there too, though he 
was not in very high favor in that quarter. A court- 
lackey on horseback had brought the invitation ; my 
master and mistress were at table, and I still see the 
count, as he pushed away his plate and rose, and 
walked about the room. 

“ ‘ What an insult ! ’ he cried, while his wife seemed 
anxious to quiet him. ( They have not included my 
wife in this invitation ; and yet we shall both do them 
the honor of going.’ And, in spite of all that the 
countess could say or pray, he made the man come in, 
and ordered him to take back his answer, that the 
count had accepted the invitation, both for himself 
and his countess. 

“ After that he seemed in particularly good spirits, 
and never minded the countess’s petitions, but kissed 
her forehead, and said, ‘ Don’t you be frightened, 
child. It is the first time I ever returned an insult 
with a favor ; I choose * to show them that you are 
their superior, and you must not spoil my sport.’ 

“ And so it really came to my dressing my Gabrielle 
— I mean my gracious mistress — for a ball. She wore 
a beautiful white satin dress, with a wreath of scarlet 
and gold in her hair, and she looked like a queen. 
‘ Comme une reine? said Monsieur Pierre, who rode 
before the sledge with a lantern ; and sweet she did 
look, as she nodded to me out of her veils and furs, to 
say good-by, and my master, who drove himself, was 
just cracking his whip to start. 


96 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


“ I was quite in love with her myself, and sat up 
all that long night awake by the fire, ready to receive 
her when she came home. I will not weary you, sir, 
by repeating all I was thinking of the while. It made 
me go to sleep myself, and I only waked toward 
morning at the noise of the sledge-bells. When I 
came running down, the count was already leading 
his countess up to her room. Neither of them seemed 
tired at all ; they looked as bright and happy as if 
something particular had occurred to please them. 
When he said good-night, he took her tenderly in his 
arms — before me, sir, and all the servants — and held 
there for a minute, as if he had forgotten the whole 
world besides. I saw how much moved she was, and 
I followed her into her room to help her to undress. 
As soon as we were alone, she fell upon my neck in 
tears, and, as she always had treated me as a mother, 
told me all that had taken place. They had created 
a great sensation when they came in, later than the 
rest. The duchess, who was a very haughty woman, 
had not said a word when the count led her up and 
presented her as his wife. But the young duke had 
been excessively courteous, and had opened the ball 
with her, and had distinguished her more than all the 
other ladies. She had felt completely at her ease, and 
I could easily see that she had been the reigning 
beauty. 

But, to her great alarm, she had come upon that 
rude English lord, standing at one of the card-ta- 
bles, and only on seeing her husband so indifferent 
and calm had she been able to recover her self -posses- 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME 1 


97 


sion. After one of the dances, the count had led her 
into another room to take some refreshment ; and 
there he had introduced some gentlemen to her. Mean- 
while the Englishman had come in with some ladies, 
unobserved ; and he had raised his eye-glass with a 
fixed stare at her, and had said quite out loud, ‘ For a 
chambermaid, she is not without tournure .’ There 
had been a dead silence ; the count had changed color, 
and soon after he had said, in a tone of the greatest 
indifference, ‘ Look there, Gabrielle ; don’t you see a 
striking likeness between that gentleman who has just 
come in and that ill-bred person who was once so rude 
to you, and was served with a taste of my horse-whip 
and my pistols as the consequence ? I rather think 
the horse-whip would have been enough ; people who 
know him are apt to think him hardly worth the pow- 
der and shot.’ 

“You can fancy, sir, how my poor countess felt 
when he said this. However, she heard no more just 
then, for the duke came into the refreshment-room 
after his partner, and was politeness itself, and all at- 
tention. I fancy more than one of these high-born 
ladies must have gone green and yellow with envy 
and jealousy. When the f&te was over, and my mas- 
ter and mistress took their leave, the English lord had 
followed them in a very insulting manner, and when 
they came to the staircase he had whispered a word 
or two in the count’s ear, who had then stood still, 
and had answered quite loud enough to be heard by 
all the footmen, and some of the court-gentlemen who 
were standing about : 

5 


98 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


“ ‘ This time you will have to look for another 
player at that game, my lord. I have found a prize 
since then, which I have no intention of staking on 
one card — even if I were certain that the cards were 
not false, such as, they did say in the London clubs, 
some people are in the habit of using. In case you 
should require any further satisfaction, my horse-whip 
is still, as it was then, very much at your service.’ 

“ And with that he had gone, and left the fellow 
standing. On their way home, he had said to Gabri- 
elle, ‘ I trust this is the last remnant of my past life 
that will ever rise up to throw a shadow on my present 
happiness. You alone are all my present and all my 
future in this world.’ And he had said more of the 
like loving, heart-felt things, that kept her warmer in 
the cold and snow of that winter night than all her 
furs. 

“ From that time they lived alone, and were all 
and all to each other, refusing every invitation that 
came from court. Only now and then they took little 
journeys ; though it was easy to see that they were 
always happiest at home, among our solitary woods. 
The countess never changed to me, and used always 
to tell me everything. The only thing we never spoke 
of was what had passed between us on that awful 
morning, when she had wanted to go away. I never 
heard whether she confessed the real reason to her 
husband. I rather think it likely that she did, for 
now the count had a peculiar look of tenderness when- 
ever he mentioned his absent son, even when he got 
a letter from Stockholm. When that happened he 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


99 


would send for me upstairs, and talk to me of my dar- 
ling, and give me the love he never forgot to send me. 
Once or twice a year he wrote to me himself, famil- 
iarly and kindly as ever, but never a word of what 
was most important to me — not a word of what he 
felt or thought. 

“When he had been about two years away, he 
wrote to announce his intended marriage with a high- 
born young lady in Sweden, and to ask for his father’s 
consent. To me he wrote that he hoped I should not 
withhold my blessing, as his bride was exactly such as 
I would have chosen for him myself. And afterward 
he sent me her picture — an angel’s face, all gentleness 
and goodness. Before I had seen it, I used sometimes 
to torment myself with thinking that he had only 
made up his mind to marry in order to set his father’s 
mind at rest ; but I knew those great, clear, innocent 
eyes of hers must have found their way to his heart. 

“ Then came accounts of the wedding, and of their 
beautiful wedding-tour among the mountains. You 
will hardly believe it, sir, but even then the young 
countess found time and thoughts to spare for poor old 
Flor. She wrote to thank me for having taken such 
care of her Ernest all his life, she said. But there was 
no word of their coming back to Germany, especially 
after the pair of twins was bom — which event was an 
occasion of great rejoicing here in this castle. The 
count used to talk of going to Sweden, and taking me 
along with them ; and you will believe that my head 
was turned by the thoughts of such a journey, and 
such a meeting. 


100 


COUNT ERNESTS HOME. 


“ But it is not for us to number our days. Many 
an old cripple or useless pensioner has to stand sentinel 
a weary while, watching for the call, and waiting to 
be relieved ; and other lives, on which a whole world 
of happiness hangs, are taken — we do not know how 
or why. 

“ One day Count Henry was carried home for dead. 
He had been thrown from his horse, and had received 
some internal injury, which no doctor was able to dis- 
cover. He came to himself again, but only with a 
faint light of consciousness or memory. He knew the 
countess and me, but no one else. Pierre he would 
not suffer in the room at all. He took him for a rat, 
and cried incessantly, ‘ Take it away ! catch it ! set a 
trap for it ! It has gnawed away my wedding gar- 
ment. See what a hole it has bitten in it ! * 

“ And then he would call upon his son so movingly, 
it was impossible to hear him without tears. The 
countess had written immediately to Count Ernest to 
tell him the state in which his father was ; I only 
feared he might come too late. 

“ Do not ask me, sir, to describe those days, and the 
nights we had to live through, nor the heart-rending 
sight it was to see that young wife, who never uttered 
one word of complaint, but rather was a support to us 
all. On the twelfth day the young count came. We 
had hardly expected him so soon, and we were almost 
startled when he entered the sick-room. 

“ As soon as he heard the door open, my master 
waked up from the lethargy in which he had been ly- 
ing, and sat up, and in a voice which I shall hear all 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


101 


ray life he cried, 4 Ernest, my son ! ’ and burst into a 
passion of tears, and wept as though his spirit were 
passing away through his eyes. After that he became 
surprisingly cheerful and sensible, and lay quietly, 
holding his son’s hand in his. He talked again with- 
out rambling ; so for one moment we hoped the worst 
was over, and the turn taken toward getting better. 
But, ten minutes after, his eyes grew dim again ; he 
gave one look at his countess, and said, 4 Ernest will 
take care of you.’ He was going to say something to 
his son as well, when he fell back and was gone. 

44 You must excuse me, sir, for telling you all this 
so particularly ; but you must let me say a few words 
more, to tell you how it ended. Alas ! the end came 
soon enough ! The very day after the funeral Count 
Ernest went away again, after having done all that 
could be done, by seals and documents, to make the 
countess complete mistress of the whole. For they 
had found no will. Count Henry knew well enough 
that he had only to say, 4 Ernest will provide for you,’ 
to close his eyes in peace. 

“ 4 If there is anything I can do for you, I beg you 
to command me in every way,’ my dear Count Ernest 
had said to his stepmother before he went. 4 If you 
should ever find this solitude too much for you, I hope 
you will remember that my wife is waiting to receive 
you with open arms.’ 

44 She looked at him affectionately, and held out 
her hand, which he respectfully took and kissed. 

“ 4 You are well cared for,’ he said in a low voice ; 
4 1 leave you with my own faithful Flor. I only beg 


102 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


you will bring her with you when you come to 
Sweden.’ 

“ Of course this was more than I could hear with 
dry eyes. So I threw my apron over my face, and 
ran away ; but in the passage he held me fast, and 
kissed me quite vehemently, and I felt how his heart 
was beating, and the hot tears from his eyes came 
dripping on my gray hairs. 

“ ‘ My boy, my Ernest, my dearest master ! ’ I said. 
‘ God bless you for having come ! as He has already 
blessed you for your truth and tenderness. He did 
not take your father until you had heard from his dy- 
ing lips that he well knew what a son he was leaving. 
Go, and God be with you ! Give old Flor’s love to 
your countess, and to the darling children ; tell them 
that Flor has no other wish on earth, but that the 
whole world might know Count Ernest’s heart as she 
knows it, and then the whole world would be ready 
to lay their hands beneath your feet, as she is.’ 

“ He broke away from me, and ordered his horses 
to meet him at the top of the walk that leads up the 
forest. He walked on before, and I heard people say 
that he had wandered about the forest, taking leave 
of the spots he loved, and now looked upon for the 
last time. So even at that time he must have resolved 
never to return. He could not be happy again in his 
old home. 

“ And so I knew that I had taken leave of him for- 
ever. I would have fretted still more about it, only 
I was so taken up with my mistress. She pined away; 
white and quiet, and without a murmur. It was just 


COUNT ERNEST'S HOME. 


103 


as if strong hands were dragging her down into her 
husband’s grave. Even dead, that proud man ruled 
her. When I wrote the sad tidings to Count Ernest 
— it is hardly a year ago — he answered me immediate- 
ly ; he said I was to go to them at all events ; and 
the young countess wrote and begged me, as hard as 
one can beg. My Ernest had given up his post, and 
settled where they are living still, on a very fine estate 
among the hills, close by the sea, where I suppose it 
must be beautiful. 

“ ‘I would come myself to fetch you,’ he wrote ; 
c only I am too conscientious in my duties as a husband 
and a husbandman to go from home in harvest-time.’ 

“ He did not like to give his real reason. But all 
this melted me, and I got my bits of things together, 
and gave over my keys to the new steward. The 
countess’s brother had a pride of his own, and never 
would have anything to do with her inheritance ; and 
so, one fine morning, I really was quite ready to go, 
and drove away. But when I got to that road in the 
hollow, to the place where one can see these chimney- 
tops just peeping above the woods, my heart failed 
me all at once, and I jumped out of the carriage, and 
ran home as if the fiends had hunted me. And when 
I got back into our court I felt as if I had been a 
hundred years away. 

“Ah ! sir, it is no good transplanting a rotten tree! 
It should be left standing where it grew, waiting for 
the axe. Heaven knows, I would gladly give the few 
years I have to live to see my Ernest’s children only 
once ; to take them in my arms, and hug those darling 


104 


COUNT ERNESTS HOME. 


babes ; but I know I could never be dragged so far. 
They would have bury to me in the sea, and my 
ghost would walk the wild salt waves, and never rest 
in peace. 

“How different here, where our own pleasant 
woods are shading the graves where my master and 
mistress are lying side by side, the birds singing 
among the branches, and the deer grazing peacefully 
round the two grave-stones that bear their names. 

“ When old Flor’s weary eyes are closed, and there 
is no one alive to tend them, they will soon be over- 
grown with moss and brushwood. And, in the woods 
where these two hid their happiness from the world, 
their rest is hidden ; and there, please God, shall mine 
be.” 


THE DEAD LAKE.* 


Summer was at its height, yet in one corner of the 
Alps an icy cold wind revolted against its dominion, 
and threatened to change the pouring rain into snow- 
flakes. The air was so gloomy that even a house 
which stood about a hundred paces from the shore of 
the lake could not be distinguished, although it was 
whitewashed and twilight had hardly set in. 

A fire had been lighted in the kitchen. The land- 
lady was standing by it frying a dish of fish, while 
with one foot she rocked a cradle which stood beside 
the hearth. In the tap-room the landlord was lying 
on a bench by the stove, cursing the flies which would 
not let him sleep. A barefooted maid-of-all-work sat 
spinning in a corner, and now and then glanced with 
a sigh through the dingy panes at the wild storm 
which was raging without. A tall strong fellow, the 
farm-servant of the inn, came grumbling into the 
room : he shook the rain-drops from his clothes, like 
a dog coming out of the water, and threw a heap of 

* German, Todiensee — the name of a small lake and a mountain 
in the Bernese Oberland, Switzerland. 


106 


THE BEAD LAKE. 


\> . 6shing-nets into a corner. It seemed as if the 
clouti of discontent and ill-humor which hung over 
the house was only kept by this moody silence from 
bursting into a storm of discord and quarreling. 

Suddenly the outer door opened, and a stranger’s 
step was heard groping through the dark passage. 
The landlord did not move ; only the maid rose, and 
opened the door of the room. 

A man in a traveling suit stood at the entrance, 
and asked if this was the inn of the Dead Lake. As 
the girl answered shortly in the affirmative, he walked 
in, threw his dripping plaid and traveling pouch on 
the table, and sat down on the bench apparently ex- 
hausted ; but he neither removed his hat heavy with 
rain nor laid down his walking-stick, as if intending 
to start again after a short rest. 

The maid still stood before him, waiting for his 
orders ; but he seemed to have forgotten the presence 
of any one in the room but himself, leant his head 
against the wall, and closed his eyes. So deep silence 
once more reigned in the hot dark room, only inter- 
rupted by the buzzing of the flies and the listless 
sighs of the maid. 

At last the landlady brought in the supper ; a lit- 
tle lad who stared at the stranger carried the candle 
before her. The landlord rose lazily from his bench, 
yawned, and approached the table, leaving to his 
wife the charge of inviting the stranger to partake of 
their meal. The traveler refused with a silent shake 
of the head, and the landlady apologized for the mea- 
greness of their fare. Meat they had none, except a 


THE HEAD LAKE. 


107 


few live ducks and chickens. They could not _ord 
to buy it for their own use, and now travelers never 
came that way ; for two years ago a new road had 
been made on the other side of the mountain, and the 
post which had formerly passed their inn now drove 
the other way. If the weather was fine, a tourist, or 
a painter who wished to sketch the environs of the 
lake, now and then lodged with them ; but they did 
not spend or expect much, neither was the selling of a 
few fish very profitable. If, however, the gentleman 
wished to remain over night, he would not fare badly. 
The bedrooms were just adjoining, and the beds well 
aired. They had also a barrel of beer in the cellar, 
good Tyrolese wine, and their spirits of gentian was 
celebrated. 

But all these offers did not tempt the guest ; he 
replied that he would stay for the night, and only 
wished a jug of fresh water. Then he arose, without 
casting a single look at the people seated round the 
table and silently eating their supper, or taking any 
notice of the little boy of ten, although the child 
made the most friendly advances, and gazed admir- 
ingly at his gold watch-guard, which sparkled faintly 
in the dim light. The maid-servant took another 
candle from the cornice of the stove, and showed him 
the way to the next room, where she filled his jug 
with fresh water, and then left him to his own 
thoughts. 

The landlord sent an oath after him. Just their 
usual luck, he grumbled ; if any guest ever came to 
them, it was always some idle vagrant who ordered 


108 


the dead lake. 


nothing, and finally took his leave without paying for 
his bed, often disappearing in company with the bed- 
clothes. His wife replied that it was just those folks 
who regaled themselves on all that larder and cellar 
could supply, and tried to ingratiate themselves with 
the landlord. This gentleman was ill in mind or 
body, as he neither ate nor drank. At this moment 
the stranger again entered the room, and asked if he 
could have a boat, as he wished to fish on the lake by 
torchlight as soon as the rain had ceased. The land- 
lady secretly poked her husband in the side, as if to 
say, “ Now you see ! he is not right in the head ; 
don’t contradict him, for heaven’s sake.” 

The landlord, who was fully aware of the advan- 
tage to be gained by this singular demand, answered 
in his surly manner that the gentleman could have 
both his boats, though it was not the fashion in these 
parts to fish at night ; but, if it amused him, he was 
welcome to do so. The farm-servant would prepare 
the torch immediately. So saying, he made a sign to 
the tall fellow, who was still occupied in picking his 
fish-bones, and opened the door for his guest. 

The rain had not ceased, and the water was dash- 
ing and gushing from the gutters. The stranger 
seemed insensible to any outward discomfort ; he 
hastily walked toward the shore, and by the light of 
the lantern which the farm-servant had brought with 
him he examined the two boats, as if he wished to 
make sure which of them was the safer. They were 
both fastened under a shed, where different fishing- 
implements were lying under some benches. Then, 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


109 


sending back the farm-servant under some pretext or 
other, he sought on the shore of the lake for a couple 
of heavy stones, which he placed in the largest of the 
two boats. He drew a deep breath, and stood for a 
moment with his eyes fixed on the dark water, which 
as far as one could see by the light of the lantern was 
furrowed by the drizzling rain. The wind had ceased 
for a moment ; the surf foamed, and dashed round 
the keel of the small boats ; from the house one 
could hear the monotonous sing-song of the landlady, 
who was lulling her baby to sleep. Even this sounded 
melancholy, reminding more of the cares of mother- 
hood than of its joys, and heightened the dismal im- 
pression made by the forsaken aspect of this corner 
of the world. 

The stranger was just returning to the house, when 
he heard on the road coming from the south, along 
which he had also traveled that morning, the cracking 
of a whip and the crashing and creaking of wheels 
which were drawn heavily up the hill through the deep 
and sloughy ruts. Shortly afterward a lightly-covered 
carriage stopped before the inn. Lights were brought 
to the door, and a female voice asked questions which 
the landlady answered in her most amiable tones; then 
two women got out of the carriage and carefully car- 
ried something wrapped up in cloaks into the house. 
The farm-servant helped the coachman to bring his 
horses under shelter. A few minutes later everything 
had relapsed into the former silence. 

It had all passed like a vision before the stranger, 
neither awakening his curiosity, nor, still less, his in- 


110 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


terest. He once more looked up at the dense clouds 
to see if there was any chance of their dispersing, and 
then entered the house, where lights were now shining 
in the room opposite the tap-room, and shadows were 
flitting to and fro behind the curtains. He gave back 
the lantern to the man, and some orders about baits 
and fishing-hooks which he would require in the morn- 
ing, and retired to his room. 

There he lighted the candle, and placed it in a 
bent candlestick which stood on the rickety table. 
Then he threw open a casement to let out the stuffy 
and damp air, and for awhile looked out on the splash- 
ing and spurting gutter in which a cork was restlessly 
dancing. Further off no object could be discerned ; 
the inky darkness of the cloudy sky hid everything 
from view. The wind howled in a ravine near the 
lake, like some caged beast of prey, and the trees near 
the house groaned under the weight of the gushing 
rain. It was an unfavorable moment for standing 
near an open window, but the stranger seemed to be 
listening intently to the dismal sound of the storm 
which raged without. When, however, the wind drove 
the rain straight into his face, he moved away, and 
paced up and down between the bare walls of the lit- 
tle room, with his hands crossed behind his back. 
His face was quite calm, and his eyes appeared to be 
looking beyond what surrounded him into some dis- 
tant world. 

At last he took writing materials and a small port- 
folio from his traveling pouch, sat down beside the 
dim candle, and wrote as follows : 


THE BEAD LAKE. 


Ill 


“ I cannot go to rest, Charles, without bidding you 
good-night. How weary I am, you must have per- 
ceived when we met, unfortunately for so short a time, 
six weeks ago. Then I ought to have spoken to you, 
and we might have come to an agreement on this 
chapter of pathology, as we have done on so many 
others. Had I done so, I could now have quietly 
smoked my last cigar, instead of tiring us both with 
this dull writing, but the words seemed to cleave to 
my lips. We should have probably disputed about 
the matter ; each of us would have maintained his own 
opinion ; so I thought it useless to spoil the few hours 
we had to spend in each other’s society. I am well 
acquainted with your principles, and know that if you 
were here you would endeavor to reconcile me to ex- 
istence. But you would wrong me if you thought 
that I had caused this dissension between life and my- 
self, which nothing but a divorce can appease. I 
would willingly live if I could. I am not such a 
coward, or so fastidious, that a few ‘ slings and arrows 
of outrageous fortune ’ should drive me distracted and 
make me take the resolution to leap out of my skin in 
the full sense of the word. Who would throw over 
the whole concern, and fume against the inscrutable 
powers, because many things are disagreeable to bear ? 
Are not the decrees of the eternal powers equally un- 
fathomable and indisputable ? But here lies the fault 
— I can play the part of a wise man no longer. The 
desperate attempt to save reason at least from the gen- 
eral wreck of soul and mind has failed. Just now, 
when I watched an old cork which had fallen into the 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


112 t 

gutter, and which, lashed by the rain, was helplessly 
whirling about in the dirty puddle, the thought struck 
me that this cork was my own brain, which had stolen 
from out my heated skull, and was now taking a 
shower-bath. If such an absurd fancy could take 
possession of my mind for a whole quarter of an hour, 
then must the last prop of my reason be fast giving 
way. 

“ I have the highest idea of the self-sacrificing du- 
ties of a man toward his fellow-creatures ; yet I can- 
not calmly see the moment approach when the asphyx- 
iated soul is to be buried alive, watch the loss of self- 
consciousness, and finally sink lower than the most 
miserable brute. This, my dear Charles, would re- 
quire the dullness of a sheep patiently awaiting the 
butcher’s knife, though it feels a worm gnawing at its 
brain. 

“ But I quite forget that this will seem but a con- 
fused outpouring of words to you, who are only aware 
of a portion of my calamities. You only know what 
the rest of the world is acquainted with — that my 
adopted sister died this day year, that her father fol- 
lowed her a few days later, and her mother in the 
spring of this year. You also know that my family 
consisted of only these three — that I loved them dearly 
— that, in fact, except yourself, they were the only 
beings to whom I was much attached. 

“Under any circumstance their loss would have 
wounded me deeply, but I should have ended by over- 
coming this grief. Even had they been severed from 
me at a single stroke, I could have bravely outlived 


THE HEAD LAKE. 


113 


it. Truly the death of one man is always irreparable, 
but his life is never indispensable. Science, my pro- 
fession, my youth, would have healed the wound. 
Now it is still open, and the blood which flows from 
it cannot be stanched, for these three precious lives 
would have been spared but for me ! 

“ I must begin from the beginning, Charles, if I 
wish to make these sad words clear to you. Y ou know, 
I believe, that I hardly ever saw my own parents; that 
after the death of my father I should have been 
brought up at the orphan asylum, if those generous 
people had not taken pity on the son of the poor sur- 
geon, and adopted me. My foster-father was one of 
the most opulent merchants of the town. When he 
gave me a home, he was still childless after eight years 
of marriage. He hoped that my presence would cheer 
him and his wife, and enliven the quiet dull house. 
Unfortunately, at first, I but ill rewarded the kindness 
of the worthy couple, though I was greatly attached 
to them. I was a reserved, irritable, and unamiable 
lad, with a great tendency to ponder over everything. 
My behavior vacillated between a moody silence, 
which lasted for days, and sudden and passionate out- 
breaks of temper. Even now I feel deeply ashamed 
when I think of the truly angelic patience with which 
my foster-parents bore my perverseness, and tried to 
moderate my violent temper without ever showing 
how sorely I disappointed their hopes. 

“ Suddenly all was changed. When I had lived 
about two years in their house, my adoptive parents 
saw their heart’s desire fulfilled. A child was born to 


114 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


them, the most beautiful and gifted creature I have 
ever seen. As if by magic, everything grew bright. 
Even I was changed, and became a good-humored 
and sensible lad. I was quite infatuated about the 
little girl, and watched her like a nurse. For hours 
together I played with her. I taught her to speak, to 
run ; forgot my dearest occupations and all my school- 
fellows when with her. 

“ My behavior toward her parents also completely 
altered. These excellent people, instead of no longer 
caring for my society, now redoubled their kindness 
toward me, and seemed to regard both of us as their 
children and as having an equal right to their affec- 
tion. 

“As time went on, my fraternal love for the little 
Ellen only increased with my years ; the more so, that 
a curious similarity in our characters became more 
perceptible every day. She was not one of those soft, 
pliable, and easily managed girls who give no more 
trouble to their mothers than to their future husbands. 
She would suddenly change from the most extravagant 
gayety to the deepest melancholy — if one can use the 
term melancholy in speaking of a child. In those 
moments she would steal out of the garden where she 
had been romping and laughing with her little com- 
panions, and come to my little room, sit down with 
grave face opposite to me, at my writing-table, and 
read the first book she could get hold of. 

“ From my school-days upward I have always been 
in heart and mind a naturalist, and had no other 
thought but that I would study medicine as my father 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


115 


had done. I used to show her all my collections, even 
the skeleton of a large monkey which stood in a corner 
behind my bed, and to hold most unchildlike conver- 
sations with the little girl ; at other times she would 
communicate her childishness to me. I cooked for her 
dolls and physicked, them after having first carefully 
bedaubed their faces with the tokens of the measles ; 
and I filled her little garden with all sorts of medicinal 
herbs from my herbarium. We never showed much 
tenderness toward each other. Only once I kissed 
her lips ; it was when I left for the university at nine- 
teen years of age. 

“ Though I deeply felt the pain of leaving my 
adoptive home, yet I fancied it would not become me 
as a man to show any emotion ; still my voice failed 
me when my dear mother embraced me with tears in 
her eyes. Little Ellen stood pale and silent by her 
side. I turned to her with some joke, and jestingly 
gave her different directions about the care of my 
zoological collection (preserved in camphor and spirits 
of wine), which I had intrusted to her charge. Then 
I drew this child of eight into my arms to bid her 
farewell. As I kissed her, I was startled by a sud- 
den shudder which ran through her frame, as if an 
asp had bitten her. She staggered back with closed 
eyes and nearly fainted away. She quickly recovered, 
however, and next day wrote me a childishly merry 
letter. 

“ After that day I only once touched her lips again, 
and then they were cold and closed forever. 

“ How the six years of my university career passed, 


116 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


how I found life at home when I returned for the 
holidays, would be useless to relate. It would he a 
long and monotonous narrative. Some estrangement 
arose between me and my foster-sister, partly through 
my fault, for science and study monopolized my atten- 
tion more and more. From year to year this strange 
girl grew more reserved in my presence. Only in her 
charming letters could I discover a trace of the old 
intimacy of our childhood. 

“ Her outward development did not fall short of 
its early promise. She was full-grown at the age of 
fourteen ; somewhat slender, but quite formed. The 
small portrait of her which I once showed you has but 
little resemblance. Her character, if I may so express 
myself, was even more mature than her person, and 
only betrayed itself in her movements. A stately 
calm, an indifference scarcely concealed for many 
things which generally appear alluring at her age, 
isolated her a good deal. Then again, when she wished 
to please, her smile, the gentle and timid yielding up 
of herself, had a charm not to be described. Few 
knew her real value, her genuine upright soul ; and 
among those few her brother was not. I was then 
too much engrossed by my studies, too eager to solve 
the mysteries of physical science, to care about the 
secrets of that young heart. Strange to say, although 
I was always of a sensual disposition, and certainly no 
paragon of virtue, and having eyes to see could easily 
perceive that all my conquests, compared with that 
remarkable girl, appeared like housemaids beside a 
young princess, yet it never entered my head to fall 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


117 


in love with her. When I wrote home, it was always 
to my foster-mother, and she had to remind me some- 
times of what was due to my little sister. 

“ She once wrote that the child, who was as re- 
served as ever, did not show what she felt, although 
my neglect seemed to hurt her ; and one day, when I 
had forgotten even to mention her in my letter, she 
had cried the whole night. 

“ I hastened to repair my negligence, and wrote her 
a most penitent letter, half in earnest, half in jest, 
accusing myself of the darkest crimes toward my 
faithful little sister, protesting that she was a thousand 
times too kind to me, a petrified egotist, whose very 
heart had been turned to stone, among skeletons and 
anatomical preparations. Her answer was full of lov- 
ing-kindness, and after that our fraternal intercourse 
seemed reestablished on the old footing. 

“Then she was fourteen years of age. On her 
fifteenth birthday I passed my examination for a doc- 
tor’s degree, and we exchanged merry congratulations 
by telegraph. 

“ Then I traveled during a year with you for a 
companion, and you will remember that the letters I 
received from home often made me slightly uneasy. 

“ My mother wrote that Ellen was not well ; she 
did not complain, but her altered looks only too visibly 
testified to her sufferings. The old family physician 
looked rather grave about it. How I was well ac- 
quainted with this good old gentleman. He was a 
strict adherent of the old school, and greatly preju- 
diced against the stethoscope ; otherwise he had the 


118 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


reputation of much experience in diagnostics, and of 
great caution and attention. 

“ Still, this could not tranquilize me, and my par- 
ents, who believed me to be the greatest medical gen- 
ius in the world, expressed a strong desire that, if I 
could possibly get away, I should hasten home and 
have a consultation with the old doctor. So I deter- 
mined, as you know, to quit my studies in Paris, to 
hurry home, and decide for myself if all was as it 
should be. 

“When I arrived, Ellen advanced to greet me, 
looking so well and lively that, at the first moment, I 
asked with playful indignation if this was the august 
patient to attend to whose delicate health a celebrated 
young physician had been summoned from a great 
distance. Poor child ! the pleasure caused by my hav- 
ing set aside every other consideration for her sake 
gave that delusive air of blooming health. I soon per- 
ceived that the old doctor had not looked grave with- 
out cause. I was decidedly opposed, however, to his 
opinion that she was threatened with pulmonary dis- 
ease. After a most careful auscultation, I had found 
her lungs to be perfectly sound, whereas the beating 
of her heart seemed to be somewhat irregular ; this 
symptom proceeded from a morbid state of the nervous 
and blood system. Accordingly, the first treatment, 
which was principally directed against everything stim- 
ulating and enjoined great quiet, seemed to me the 
reverse of salutary. I prescribed steel, wine, and 
strengthening food, to rectify the poverty of blood, 
and declared that the remedies by which the old doc- 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


119 


tor hoped to ward off the disease were as bad as poi- 
son in her case. Her parents, of course, decided with 
me, particularly as the apparent success of my treat- 
ment during the first weeks of my stay with them cor- 
roborated my statement. Ellen felt more lively and 
stronger, her sleep and appetite returned ; and while 
the old practitioner withdrew deeply hurt and morti- 
fied, I enjoyed the first pleasures of fame, though it 
still stood on a very precarious footing, and I felt the 
happiness of having delivered those dear to me from 
a heavy care. 

“ I never intended to establish myself in that town. 
I knew that I could only reside in a large capital, 
where I could find better assistance in my studies. I 
therefore carefully intrusted Ellen’s treatment to the 
second doctor of the place, a very humble man, rather 
irresolute, and dependent on others, who, in presence 
of so young and far-traveled a colleague, meekly re- 
signed any opinion of his own, and promised to keep 
strictly to the enjoined course of treatment, and now 
and then to write and inform me of the progress of 
the cure. The parents saw me depart with heavy 
hearts ; but my welfare, and their duty with regard 
to my success in life, outweighed any wishes of their 
own, and Ellen eagerly seconded my desire. I had 
already lost too much of my precious time on her ac- 
count, she said ; she felt much better, and now that 
she knew my orders, no one should induce her to 
do anything I had not sanctioned. I still see the 
smile with which she bade me good-by, while the 
repressed tears choked her voice. Alas ! Charles, it 


120 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


was the last time that I saw a smile light up that dear 
face ! 

“ So I departed entirely blinded, and at the com- 
mencement of my stay at M I was so completely 

taken up with the exercise of my profession, that in 
the letters from home I only noticed the favorable 
particulars ; especially as Ellen’s frequent accounts of 
herself, which almost formed a sort of diary, lulled me 
into so perfect a security that I fancied the care and 
anxiety, which now and then appeared in her mother’s 
letters, to be only caused by the exaggerated fondness 
of a mother’s heart. 

“ My colleague, full of respect for my green wis- 
dom, did his best to interpret every graver symptom 
in favor of my diagnostics ; and so I lived on, a rose- 
colored mist blinding my eyes, till the darkest night 
suddenly closed around me. 

“ Ellen’s letters, which, in the later weeks, had be- 
come rather dispirited, suddenly stopped. In their 
stead I received a letter from the doctor, about six 
months after my departure, saying that another con- 
sultation with me seemed to him most desirable. In 
the last few weeks several symptoms had suddenly 
changed, so that he dared not proceed in the former 
manner without further orders. My adoptive parents 
also eagerly entreated me to come to them. 

“ But, even in spite of all this, I still lingered — cer- 
tainly not for any frivolous reason ; the life or death 
of some of my patients, just then, depending on my 
stay. At last a telegraphic dispatch startled me into 
activity. A vomiting of blood had taken place. * If 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


121 


you do not come instantly,’ wrote her mother, ‘you 
will not find her alive.’ 

“ Late at night I arrived at their house, feeling as 
if I myself were dying. On that dreadful journey 
the scales had suddenly fallen from my eyes, and, with 
the same ingenuity which I had formerly exercised to 
confirm my own errors, I now sought out every argu- 
ment expressly to torment myself with the conviction 
that I alone was responsible for the loss of this much- 
cherished being. I tottered up the well-known stairs. 
Her mother met me on the landing, tearless, but with 
a disturbed look in her eyes. It seemed almost like a 
relief to me when she exclaimed, ‘You are too late !’ 
I had dreaded to meet the eyes of my poor sister, as 
a murderer dreads the dying look of his victim. And 
yet it was more painful to see the calm face which 
reclined on her pillows, smiling, and free from re- 
proach. 

“Ho one accused me; they still believed in me, 
and laid the blame on different incidents ; but I felt 
crushed under the weight of my despair and the wild- 
est self-reproaches. 

“On entering the chamber of death, her father, 
looking like a corpse, staggered heavily into my 
arms, and, losing all self-command, burst into such 
convulsive sobs that the people passing in the streets 
stopped to listen. Then the sight of all the old ser- 
vants who had adored her — of her mother so com- 
pletely changed — even to this day my hair stands on 
end when I think of that dreadful scene. The moth- 
er, beside herself with grief, called for wine, for I was 
6 


122 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


to drink Ellen’s health — she supposed the ‘so-called 
good God ’ would not object to that. But when the 
servant brought it, the father, taking the glass from 
the plate, dashed it against the wall, crying out, 
‘ Broken ! dead ! ’ a hundred times, till his voice was 
choked by tears. At last his wife led him away, and 
I was left alone with the dead. 

“ Enough of this dreadful night. I need only add 
that, by dissection, I obtained a full confirmation of 
that of which the quick penetration of the old phy- 
sician had foreseen the danger. Could it have been 
averted ? Who can say with certainty whether a con- 
flagration can be stayed or not, if he does not know 
what feeds it, or whence the wind blows? I had 
poured fuel on the fire which had snatched away this 
innocent life. 

“You may imagine that I did not close my eyes 
that night. The morning found me still sitting, racked 
with pain and fever, by the bedside of my sister, when 
the door opened, and her mother entered the room. 
She had recovered the noble and gentle serenity of her 
features, now that the first delirium of despair had 
passed. She kissed me with overflowing tears, and 
even in my burning eyes the tears welled up. ‘ My 
dear son,’ she said, ‘ I here surrender to you a small 
packet which I found in her writing-table ; your name 
is on it.’ 

“ It was her diary, beginning with her twelfth year, 
up to a few days before her death. On every page I 
found my name ; on the last were these words : ‘ I am 
dying, darling. I have known you and been permitted 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


123 


to love you. What more can life bring me ? I now 
have no other wish but that you should know that I 
only lived for you, and through you ! ’ And this to 
her murderer ! ! 

“ All the events that succeeded — the death of her 
father, the short widowhood of her mother, who pined 
away till she was at last reunited to her darling ones — 
all this, sad as it was, could no longer move me, the 
darkness within me was so great. What mattered it 
if one spark more died out or not ? That I never could 
forget or overcome. That all hopes of ever being 
happy again were at end was a conviction deeply im- 
pressed on my heart. 

“ I repeated to myself a hundred times that I had 
acted for the best according to my belief, that every 
one of my colleagues had experienced a like misfor- 
tune, that we were only responsible for our intentions. 
But in spite of all this, did these three lives weigh the 
less on my soul ? Could I absolve myself, were all the 
judges in heaven and earth to proclaim me free from 
guilt ? I had destroyed the only joy of my benefac- 
tors, and had miserably deceived them. I had neglect- 
ed this precious life, and how could I henceforth expect 
any man to intrust his life to me ? 

“ I know what you would oppose to this, Charles. 
You have often told me that I was too sensitive for 
the doctor’s profession ; that every one who consults 
us knows beforehand that we are only human — not 
omnipotent and omniscient gods — and takes his chance; 
that the best doctors are those who never let their feel- 
ings interfere, and never paralyze their energies for 


124 


THE DEAD LAKE . 


the future by useless regrets for the unalterable past. 
I quite agree with you that these are most sound max- 
ims ; but I know enough of disease to foresee that mine 
is incurable. 

“ When the first stunning pain had somewhat sub- 
sided, I said to myself that I must bear it as well as I 
could, and at least try to be of some use as a subordi- 
nate, having forfeited my rights as a master. I threw 
my whole energy into theoretical studies ; I collected, 
dissected, and observed. I might, perhaps, have rec- 
onciled myself to this new existence if the past had 
not thrown a shadow over everything. Now I loathed 
and revolted inwardly against all this groping on the 
boundaries of human knowledge. A general, after 
losing a battle upon which depended the destiny of a 
whole nation, will hardly like, as long as the war lasts, 
to sit in a corner of some quiet library and study tac- 
tics and strategy. Then I believed that time would 
cure my wounds, and make life at least supportable to 
me, even if it should be forever sunless and gloomy. 

“ I had tried aimless wandering, and had only ex- 
perienced the truth of that hackneyed saying that 
shifting of scenes can never change tragedy into com- 
edy. 

“ Only once it seemed as if I might be allured back 
to that part of my life alone worth living for — my 
profession ! 

“ It was on a steamer between Marseilles and Ge- 
noa. We had left the coast far behind us. Suddenly 
the captain came up in great consternation, and asked if 
there was any doctor among the passengers. A lady 


THE BEAD LAKE. 


125 


had been taken ill, and was lying in the cabin writh- 
ing with pain. I was just lying down to sleep, deter- 
mined not to meddle in this matter, when I heard 
moans and exclamations from the cabin which would 
not let me rest. I asked the captain to take me down, 
and, after searching the ship’s medicine chest, found 
some remedies which soothed the pain. The lady 
would not let me go, but insisted, in a strange medley 
of Spanish and French, on my passing the night on a 
sofa in the adjoining cabin. At last she went to sleep, 
and my eyes also closed, wnary with gazing through 
the hatchway at the moonlit sea. 

“ All at once I felt something like an icy-cold hand 
drawn across my face. I started up, believing it to 
be the spray which was dashing off the wheels into 
the cabin ; but to my intense horror I saw the figure 
of Ellen standing beside me, just as she had looked 
when lying in her coffin ; only her dim, widely-opened 
eyes were fixed on me, and her white finger was laid 
to her lips, as if to say, ‘ Do not betray me.’ Then 
she approached the couch of the stranger, lifted one 
of the green silk curtains, and, after gazing for several 
minutes on the sleeping woman, she sadly shook her 
head, and looked gravely at me as if to reproach me 
for caring for another when I had left her to die. For 
one moment she sunk down at the foot of the bed, as 
if greatly exhausted ; then, beckoning three times to 
me, she glided through the hatchway like a streak of 
mist. Since that I have never again approached a 
sick-bed. You know, Charles, that I was never of a 
visionary nature, that I do not believe in spirits. Of 


126 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


course, I know as well as you do that this was only a 
delusion of the senses — an apparition caused by the 
over-excited state of my nerves. But does this alter 
the main point ? Did I suffer the less because I knew 
it to be owing to the power of my nerves over my 
reason ? How can one whose senses are at variance 
with him hope to gain peace ? and how is he to live 
who hopes no longer ? 

“ I have become a superfluous guest at the banquet 
of life, and so I prefer taking leave of it, and only 
press your hand once more before disappearing. My 
existence is now no longer necessary to any one — not 
even to a dog. 

“ None but a healthy and cheerful egotist could 
tolerate a life which subsists only for itself. Pardon 
me, my dear friend ; I know that you will now and 
then miss me ; but you would surely rather never 
meet me again than recognize me some day in a mad- 
house, clothed in a strait waiscoat and muttering so- 
liloquies. 

“ This letter has nearly attained the dimensions of 
a volume ; but as it is the last I shall ever write, its 
length may be pardoned. I shall seal this inclosure 
with a steady hand, for I am only about to do that 
which I must, that which I believe to be for the 
best. 

“ Here, in this solitary inn, they will only suppose 
me to be some crazed Englishman who insists on fish- 
ing by torch-light, in the middle of the night. To- 
morrow, when they see the boat driven on the lake 
without me, they will say I have only suffered for my 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


127 


folly, by falling asleep and tumbling overboard. Let 
all my acquaintances suppose the same. 

“ And now good-night. I own that on the point 
of going to sleep I feel some curiosity, and hope to 
have many things made clear to me. . It is a pity that 
I shall not be able to impart my observations to you, 
as we have always done when studying together on 
terrestrial subjects. I am also desirous to witness 
what dreams may haunt us in eternal sleep, if a dead 
man can witness anything. Nothing further has any 
interest for me. My will was deposited six months 
ago in the court of justice. You are my executor. I 
thank you once more for your faithful and firm friend- 
ship. Let this be my last word. 

“ Eberhard. ” 

He did not read over what he had written, but 
immediately folded it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, 
and wrote the address. Then he again looked out of 
the window. The storm had gradually subsided. He 
lighted a cigar, and, pacing his room, he watched the 
long-legged spiders crawling about the low ceiling, 
and observed the effects of tobacco on them, by blow- 
ing a thick cloud of smoke over their backs. But he 
soon grew tired of this interesting occupation, and 
stared vacantly at the whitewashed walls that sur- 
rounded him. Suddenly a clamor arose in the ad- 
joining tap-room. He heard through the door a gruff 
voice, which belonged neither to the landlord nor to 
the farm-servant, complaining of some unreasonable 
demand. “Yes, it was always so. It was just those 


128 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


women who cried and lamented if a baby had a cold, 
that did not feel the least compassion for two poor 
horses, but would drag them from the manger, after a 
journey of fifteen miles, in this cursed weather, mostly 
up-hill, and over those dreadful roads ; would force 
them to trot for ten miles further, and the whole night 
through, regardless whether they could move a limb 
on the morrow or not. But he would not stir ; no, 
not if they were to lay down a hundred crowns on the 
very spot. He was not in the service of a knacker, 
but had to deliver up his roadsters in the same condi- 
tion in which he got them ; and, besides, to say the 
truth, he wished for some rest for himself, and did not 
care to break his limbs on the way or get drowned in 
a puddle.” 

A timid female voice, which had now and then 
interrupted this speech with beseeching words, was 
silenced by this conclusion, which was accompanied 
by a fierce oath and a heavy thump of the fist on the 
table. The landlord intervened in his abrupt way by 
seconding the coachman, and ordering some beer from 
the cellar. Then the two men began to converse on 
other subjects, the coachman chiefly abusing the bad 
roads, which ruined horses and carriage. The landlord 
fully agreed with him, and asked him how it was that 
the ladies had preferred coming by this side of the 
Dead Lake. The coachman informed him that a land- 
slip had made the other road quite impassable, at least 
for twenty-four hours. The rest of the passengers had 
been contented to wait at the station, but these ladies 
had insisted on continuing their journey on this dan- 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


129 


gerous road, perhaps because of the child, which never 
ceased to wail and moan. At this moment the door 
opened, and the men’s rough tones were suddenly 
hushed. A melodious woman’s voice was heard, whose 
touching accents seemed to quiet even these coarse 
fellows — at least the coachman, who, on her renewing 
her prayer to him to prepare for their departure, an- 
swered quite civilly, and without any superfluous 
oaths, that it was almost impossible to gratify her 
wishes, and gave his reasons. She appeared to acqui- 
esce in their importance, and, after a moment’s silent 
reflection, asked if any messenger could he found who 
for a considerable gratification would undertake to 
summon a doctor, otherwise the child would probably 
not live through the night. In saying this her voice 
trembled so much that the involuntary listener was 
touched to the heart. He walked to the casement, 
hoping to drown those soft tones in the rushing sound 
of the rain. At this moment, however, the clouds 
above the lake dispersed, showing the moon’s clear 
and silvery crescent, and the sudden stillness forced 
him to hear the rest of the parley. 

The landlord called his servant, and asked him if 
he w'ould take a message to the doctor, who lived six 
miles distant, in the small market-town which was 
situated in a neighboring valley. The man replied 
that he had no objection to the long walk or the bad 
road, if the lady gave him a liberal fee ; but he knew 
that it would be useless, for Hansel, the forester’s as- 
sistant, had told him that very day that his friend 
Sepp had to wait another week to have the ball ex- 


130 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


tracted from his thigh, for the doctor himself was ill 
from a fall from his horse, and his apprentice had an 
unsafe hand, as he was renowned for drinking too 
much brandy. Then the sad and gentle voice of the 
lady asked, after a silence of several minutes, if it 
would not be possible to procure a litter, and carry 
the child to the nearest place where a doctor resided ; 
she herself would help to carry it ; she only required 
a couple of trustworthy men, and a guide with a 
lighted torch. 

That could not be done either, the landlord an- 
wered ; they had no litter on which the child could 
be carried comfortably, and then they could not all 
leave the house ; however, he would speak to his wife 
about it. 

He was just reluctantly leaving his bench by the 
stove when the landlady herself rushed into the room, 
and cried out that the nurse begged her mistress to 
come to the child — that departure was now not to be 
thought of, for the child was dying. 

The listener in the adjacent room turned from the 
window as if drawn by some magic power ; he took a 
few steps toward the door, then stopped and shook his 
head with a sigh. He tried to recommence his walk 
up and down the small room ; but at every second step 
he stood still to listen for some further sound. His 
cigar had gone out. Mechanically he held it to the 
candle to light it ; but before he was aware of what 
he was doing, his breath had extinguished the feeble 
flame. He remained staring at the dying sparks in 
the wick — one moment more, and the last would dis- 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


131 


appear. Possibly in tbe next room a little flame far 
more valuable tban tbe miserable light of this penny 
candle was on the point of relapsing into the darkness 
of night. 

Well, let it die out ; what right had any one to 
meddle in the matter ? Perhaps, by trying to kindle 
it again, it would only the more surely be extinguished 
by his clumsy hands. What can it signify ? Why try 
to save a human being’s life who may, some day or 
other, wish that he had never been born, and who may 
perhaps also see the hour when he shall have to bid 
good-night to his dearest friend ? 

Again he listened, and held his breath, not to lose a 
sound of what was passing in the next room. He 
fancied he heard a child’s plaintive moaning, then the 
lady’s gentle voice trying to soothe it, passionate weep- 
ing, and then silence. He could stand it no longer in 
the solitude of his room. He only wished to hear how 
the child was going on. He began to think himself a 
barbarian, to be quietly hiding in a corner, when even 
these rough peasants showed some sympathy. Hastily 
opening the door, he groped his way through the dark, 
empty tap-room, and across the passage. The door 
was ajar, and a ray of light streamed through the 
chink. He now distinctly heard the child moan and 
the mother quieting it. “We ought to prepare some 
tea for the poor child in order to bring on a perspira- 
tion,” said the hostess. “We must try and find some.” 
“ The elder-berries, in the drawer up-stairs, would not 
do badly in case of need,” answered her husband. 
Then silence reigned again, only interrupted by the 


132 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


sighs of the house-maid, who knelt in a corner, repeat- 
ing one paternoster after another. 

“Put another feather-bed on the child,” advised 
the coachman ; “ it has caught cold ; see how its little 
hands twitch convulsively — it is freezing.” 

The farm-servant, who stood near the stove, was 
just going to lay another log on the still glowing em- 
bers, when he was arrested by a firm hand which was 
laid on his shoulders. He turned round and perceived 
the stranger standing before him. “ I forbid you to 
put another chip of wood,” he said, in a voice which 
denoted that he was accustomed to be strictly obeyed. 
“ And you all,” he continued, turning to the rest of the 
idle spectators, “ get out of the room ; do you hear ? 
The air here is bad enough to stifle even a healthy 
man.” They all looked at each other ; only the mother 
and nurse of the child had not perceived the entrance 
of the stranger. The mother knelt beside the bed, 
with one arm clasped round the moaning child as if to 
defend it from assassins. The nurse stood by her, and 
stared in helpless despair on her little charge — on its 
wandering eyes and fever-parched lips, from which 
now and then a low wail escaped. She started back, 
as if Death in person was approaching her, when the 
stranger stepped up to the bed, laid his hand on the 
burning brow, and took up one of the little thin arms 
to feel the pulse. 

The shriek of horror which the nurse involuntarily 
uttered awakened the mother from the lethargy of de- 
spair. She looked wonderingly at the stranger, and a 
sudden ray of hope brightened her face. 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


133 


“ Madam,” he said, “ will you intrust your child to 
one entirely unknown to you, who, though he has not 
the presumption to promise to save its life, yet knows 
what in these cases is prescribed by our feeble 
science ? ” 

She could not answer him ; the unlooked-for aid 
in her direst distress overpowered her. “ Take this,” 
he said, drawing a card from his pocket-book ; “ my 
name may not be known to you, but the title which 
stands before it will show you that others too have 
trusted to my skill — with what result, has nothing to 
do with the present case.” 

The young woman remained in her former posi- 
tion, but she stretched toward him the arm not en- 
gaged in supporting her child’s head, and said, “ The 
Almighty seems to have sent you ; He has had com- 
passion on me. I fully confide in you ! ” 

“ Then order a pitcher of fresh spring- water from 
the well and a tub to be brought. The rest I will 
manage myself.” 

He hastily opened both windows, and took the 
feather-bed from off the child, only covering it lightly 
with a large plaid. Then he called in the farm-ser- 
vant, who was standing in the passage with the rest 
of the people, grumbling, and waiting for the result 
of the stranger’s despotic interference. He asked if 
no snow or ice could be procured in the neighborhood. 
“ Yes,” growled out the man, “ there was some to be 
had ; but one must climb for about an hour through 
the woods, to get to the crevice in a rock, where the 
snow never melted summer or winter, as the sun could 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


134 

not reach the spot. To-morrow morning he would go 
and fetch some ! ” 

“ You don’t seem to understand me,” resumed the 
doctor. “ Here I lay down this crown ; it is now half- 
past nine o’clock ; the moon is up, the storm has 
ceased. Whoever brings me in the course of an hour 
a load of snow or ice has gained this reward. To- 
morrow you may bring down a whole glacier, and will 
not get a penny for it.” “ All right,” said the farm- 
servant v/ith a short laugh, and walked away. The 
nurse had in the mean time brought in the cold water 
and an empty tub. Without another word, the stran- 
ger lifted the child from the bed, stripped off its 
clothes, and, telling the mother to hold it, poured the 
icy cold water over it. He then dried it quickly, laid 
it again in its bed, and wrapped a wet towel round its 
head. The child, which a moment ago had struggled 
and screamed in his arms, now seemed relieved. The 
eyes ceased to wander, and turned toward the mother 
with a wondering but calm look ; then she closed 
them with a deep sigh. 

“ The child is dying ! ” the nurse screamed out, 
and burst into a fit of crying. “ I thought that would 
be the consequence of the cold water and the open 
windows. Ah, madam, how could you suffer this ? ” 

“ Silence,” said the stranger imperiously, “ or you 
will have to leave the room. I hope, madam,” he con- 
tinued, in a gentler tone, “ that you do not expect a 
miracle from me. The illness we have to combat 
cannot be vanquished in one night. The child has a 
virulent typhus fever, and our chief care must be to 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


135 


prevent the brain from being affected. But do not 
let every new symptom alarm you. As far as I can 
judge, no aggravating circumstances exist. You see 
the child has again opened its eyes. Nature already 
feels that we are assisting it. How old is the child ? ” 
“Seven years and a few weeks.” “A fine child, 
so well developed ; what anguish you must now 
suffer ! ” 

Tears streamed from the poor mother’s eyes ; she 
pressed her face against the little white hand which 
lay on the dark plaid. All the agitation of the last 
weary hours dissolved in these refreshing tears. 

At last she arose, and, with a grateful look at the 
doctor, sank into a chair which he had placed for her 
beside the bed. He too took a seat at the foot of it, 
and gravely but calmly observed the little girl. They 
were both silent. The nurse, ashamed of her thought- 
less outbreak, went to and fro to renew the cold com- 
presses. Without, all was still ; the last clouds had 
disappeared, and a ray of moonlight stole in, and 
shone slanting through the narrow casement, lighting 
up the small white hand of the young mother who was 
softly stroking the little hand of her child. The only 
sound which broke the silence proceeded from the 
streamlets formed by the rain, which were now rush- 
ing past the house, the regular dripping of the gutter, 
and the whistling of the coachman who was bedding 
his horses. 

Suddenly the child raised herself on the pillows, 
looked at the stranger with widely-opened eyes, and 
said, “ Is this papa ? is he not dead ? I want to give 


136 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


him a kiss, mamma ; has he not brought something 
for his little daughter ? I want to sit on his knee. 
Where is Sophy ? Oh ! my poor head ! Papa, please 
hold my head. I am thirsty.” Then the small fair 
head sank back on the pillow, and the eyes closed as 
if in pain. Eberhard rose and held a glass of fresh 
water to her burning lips. “ Thank you, papa,” said 
the child. Then she became very quiet, only the 
twitchings of the feverish half -opened mouth betrayed 
her sufferings. 

“ I must explain to you,” the lady began, turning 
to the silent doctor, who had now resumed his seat, 
“ how it comes that my poor darling has those strange 
fancies. Unfortunately, I must reproach myself with 
having caused this violent shock. The father of my 
poor little girl was an Austrian officer. A few months 
after our marriage, I had to part with him ; his regi- 
ment was ordered to Italy, where the war was com- 
mencing. Shortly afterward news reached me that 
he had been among the first victims of the bloody 
battle of Solferino. Since that time I have always 
felt the greatest longing to visit the spot where my 
dear husband found repose after his short career, and, 
though no cross marks his grave, at least to inhale the 
air in which his brave heart breathed its last. Even 
my little girl expressed the same wish as she grew 
older, and understood me when I told her of her fa- 
ther’s death. Many things deterred me from realizing 
this plan, particularly the fear that the long journey 
might over-fatigue and agitate the child, who always 
had a very excitable imagination and a tender heart ; 


THE DEAD LAKE 


137 


and now I have to suffer severely for having indulged 
my desire. If you had seen how eagerly she listened 
to the words which I translated to her from the ac- 
count of the old sergeant whom I found watching the 
monument on the field of battle ! Her cheeks burned 
and her eyes glistened ; her emotion was far beyond 
her years. When we turned back she shivered, and 
in the following night complained of headache, and 
did not sleep for an instant. She did not mention her 
father again till this moment, when she mistook you 
for him, and fancied he was sitting at her bedside. 
Perhaps it would have been better had I remained 
where I was ; but I dreaded the Italian doctors, and 
did not believe the danger to be so imminent. In my 
own carriage, for I had taken post-horses on leaving 
the railway, I thought we could easily arrange a com- 
fortable bed for the child. The weather too was 
warm, and she herself eagerly desired to be taken 
home. The storm reached us just at the worst part 
of the road, and we were most thankful when we 
reached this inn. Eut what would have become of us 
without your help ? ” 

She turned from the gloomy and taciturn man to 
dry her tears. Then they again sat silently opposite 
each other. He felt tempted to entreat her to go on 
speaking ; there was something in her voice which 
soothed him, and was as cooling balm to his feverish 
soul ; but he saw that her thoughts were again occu- 
pied with the child, and he had nothing to tell her. 
He only gazed more earnestly at the young woman by 
the dim light of the candle and of the moon. He re- 


138 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


marked that her brow and the shape of her eyes, 
which had a strikingly melancholy and gentle expres- 
sion in them, resembled those of his adoptive mother, 
who had so often looked at him with thoughtful af- 
fection. Her figure was round and supple, and every 
turn of her head and of her slender throat was full of 
grace. The abundant auburn hair hung negligently 
over her shoulders. All about her showed the habits 
of one accustomed to wealth — wealth ennobled by a 
cultivated mind and refined taste, but which had lost 
all charms for her in the danger which threatened her 
most precious treasure. 

The door was now cautiously opened, and the 
farm-servant dragged in a large tub filled with ice ; 
then, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he 
triumphantly pointed to the clock, which showed that 
ten minutes were still wanting to the stipulated hour, 
pocketed his well-earned money, and officiously asked 
if anything else was wanted. “No; he could goto 
bed now,” the doctor answered. He then tore a piece 
of oiled silk from the lining of his traveling-pouch, 
made a bag of it to hold the ice, and showed the nurse 
how to lay it on the forehead of the child. Her mis- 
tress interfered. “ No,” she said ; “ you must now lie 
down and rest, Josephine ; you have not slept for 
thirty-six hours.” 

“ Neither, madame, have you,” observed the maid ; 
“ and I do not need it so much as your honor, for at 
least I have swallowed a few morsels of food.” 

“ Do as I tell you,” resumed the mother ; “ I well 
know how useless it would be for me to attempt to 


THE DEAD LAKE. 139 

sleep. Perhaps I may be able to take some rest in the 
morning, if the night passes well.” 

“Allow me to feel your pulse, madame,” said the 
doctor ; and then, without another word, he suddenly 
left the room. 

The two women looked after him in astonishment, 
and the maid, an elderly fat woman, with a round face, 
strongly marked by the small-pox, and good-natured 
brown eyes, availed herself of his absence to sing the 
praises of their unknown deliverer quite as eagerly as 
she had previously abused him. “ He had something 
so peculiar about him,” she remarked ; “ he appeared 
to be ill, and yet kind-heartedness was written on every 
feature. And how cleverly he managed everything ; 
how well he supported our child’s head, just as if he 
had been a nurse all the days of his life ! And then 
he is so very handsome and quite young. Only now 
and then, when a stern expression comes over his face, 
he looks so grave and gloomy, as if he had never 
laughed ; and at other times he shuts his eyes, as if he 
were in great pain, and wished to conceal it.” 

At this moment the subject of her remarks re- 
turned, carrying a large glass of milk in his hand. He 
gave it to the lady as one would offer some medicine 
to a child. “ Drink this, madame,” he said ; “ it is 
new milk, and will do you good. You require strength 
to fulfill the task you have undertaken, and here noth- 
ing else is to be had. It would be very beneficial to 
the child if she could be induced to swallow a few 
drops. Hold the glass to her lips, and persuade 
her to try it ; you have succeeded. We must do all 


140 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


we can to keep up her strength, so that another attack 
may not overcome her. Now follow my advice, and 
lie down on that bed ; I will watch the child, and the 
maid also can well spare a few hours more of sleep. 
When midnight has passed, I will awake you, and 
then the maid can lie down.” She still objected. “ Do 
as I tell you,” he said passionately, “ or I will think 
that you never really felt the confidence you showed 
me.” 

She turned toward the bed, where the child, re- 
lieved by the ice compresses, lay apparently asleep, 
and, stooping over its delicate little face, kissed its 
closed eyes. “ I will obey you,” she said, with a faint 
smile, “ if you promise to awake me in case my child 
should grow worse.” 

He silently pressed her hand and took her seat by 
the bedside, while her maid helped her to lie down on 
the second bed, which stood in a corner, after having 
removed a load of coverings. 

When a quarter of an hour had passed, the faith- 
ful creature, softly approaching the doctor, who sat 
absorbed in his own thoughts, stooped, seized one of 
his hands, and, before he could prevent it, had pressed 
it to her lips, whispering, “ God be praised, she sleeps ! 
Oh, sir, you can work marvels ! For four nights my 
mistress had not closed her eyes. First, the grief and 
agitation before we reached that unfortunate battle- 
field ; and then, anxiety about her child. If you but 
knew what an angel my mistress is ! If I were to tell 
you all — ” 

“Leave that for another time,” he interrupted ; 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


141 


“ you have nothing else to do now but to lie down, and 
not to stir till I call you. To-night you are useless, 
and to-morrow you must be up early. Here are pil- 
lows and coverlets enough. Arrange a bed for your- 
self beside the stove ; and now good-night. Don’t 
contradict me. Do you wish to awake your mistress 
by uselessly arguing the matter ? ” 

The good woman obeyed with a timid, humble 
look, pulled a feather-bed into a corner of the room, 
and in a few minutes her regular breathing proved that 
she too had needed rest after the hardships of the last 
few days. 

A short while afterward the moon disappeared be- 
hind a cloud, and only the faint reflex of the starry 
sky was to be seen on that part of the lake which 
could be overlooked from the room in which the lone- 
ly watcher sat by the sick-bed. He now for the first 
time felt a desire to take some food and to quench his 
thirst. He drank the remainder of the milk, which 
still stood on the table. As he put down the glass he 
fancied he saw the lady on the bed make a convulsive 
movement. He approached her softly. In an uneasy 
dream, she had put both hands to her eyes as if to 
wipe away tears ; now she slept quietly, and her hands 
slowly sank down again. Motionless he gazed on that 
fair face, on which every dream was reflected as the 
shadows of dissolving clouds on the calm surface of a 
lake — sorrow, anxiety, then hope ! Now she smiled, 
and the delicately chiseled lips parted, disclosing two 
rows of pearly teeth. The next moment her brow 
darkened, an imploring look appeared on her face ; 


142 


THE DEAD LAKE \ 


she stretched out both her hands and clasped them to- 
gether. He then remarked on one of her fingers two 
wedding-rings, and wondered whether the second one 
belonged to the father of her child, or if some other 
man were now in possession of that small hand. He 
was roused from these thoughts by a moan from the 
little girl. He only arranged the coverlet, which had 
fallen on the ground, and wrapped it round the small 
feet of the young woman, who had not taken off her 
boots. Then he returned to his occupation of chang- 
ing, every quarter of an hour, the ice that had melted, 
and now and then refreshing the parched lips of the 
child with a few drops of water. 

Toward midnight a violent wind arose on the lake, 
and the young man shivered, as the window was still 
open. He seized the first wrap which he found among 
the luggage, and covered himself up with it. It was 
a long, soft burnoose, lined with silk, which belonged 
to the young woman. He pulled the hood over his 
head, and a sweet scent was wafted from it ; as the 
silk touched his face, a peculiar feeling of languor 
came over him ; he closed his eyes, but a confused 
maze of ideas passed through his mind, and he could 
not sleep. 

Suddenly his eyes opened with an expression of 
terror in them. He started from his chair, and, trem- 
bling violently, stared at the lake. Conspicuous on 
the dark surface of the water something white glided 
slowly; it had the shape of a veiled figure, and seemed 
to move toward the house. The moon had appeared 
again, and lit up a faint streak of mist which had 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


143 


strayed from tlie mountain-tops, and was swept across 
the lake. When it reached the current of wind that 
blew from the ravine, it dissolved, and the surface of 
the water was as clear as before ; hut the only one 
who had seen this airy apparition still stood as if root- 
ed to the ground, and stared at the spot where it had 
disappeared. A cold perspiration bathed his brow ; 
his breath came shortly and quickly, and his eyes, 
which started from their sockets, remained fixed on 
that spot, as if he expected to see the vision appear 
again the next moment. 

A hot little hand touched the clammy ones of the 
horror-stricken man. “ Is it you, papa ? ” asked the 
little girl, and sat up in the bed. Two small, thin 
arms were stretched up to him, and, before he was 
aware of it, the child clung to his neck, and hid its 
burning face on his breast. “ Don’t leave us again, 
papa,” she said, “ or mamma will cry again, and I 
must die.” 

In an instant the nightmare which oppressed him 
vanished. He clasped the slender little figure in his 
arms, as if it were a protection against the malignant 
powers. He held her so for some time, and while the 
child caressed him he felt the blood flow more calmly 
through his veins. He kissed her little face, stroked 
her damp curls, and asked, “ What is your name, my 
child?” 

“ Are you my papa,” she said, “ and do not even 
know that I am your own little Fan ? Ah ! yes, I 
know that they have shot you ; that is why you have 
forgotten me. Did it hurt you much ? ” 


144 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


“ To-morrow I will tell you all about it,” be said, 
and gently laid her back on her bed ; “ now you must 
keep quiet, and not awake your mamma.” 

The child obediently lay down and closed her eyes; 
but she held fast the hand of her faithful guardian, 
and now and then looked up at him with a wonder- 
ing but wide-awake expression. He, too, steadfastly 
gazed on the innocent face, as if fearing that, were he 
to turn round, the terrifying vision would again appear. 

So he watched by the sick-bed till day dawned. 
When the bare rocky peaks which rose above the lake 
blushed in the first morning light, sounds of life broke 
the stillness of the house. 

The farm-servant crept shoeless along the passage, 
and, cautiously peeping into the sick-room, pointed 
to the now empty wooden tub, and asked if another 
supply of ice were wanted. The doctor nodded his 
head, and he disappeared. Then came the landlady 
and offered her ready services, but Eberhard declined 
them. The generosity of the strange gentleman had 
worked wonders with the inmates of the house. Only 
the coachman, who had not got over his intoxication 
of the previous day, stumbled, cursing and growling, 
with heavy boots, down the stairs and through the 
passage ; so that the lady asked, still half asleep, if it 
were time to start. “ Not yet,” answered Eberhard ; 
“ you can sleep on for another hour.” Then he rose 
hastily, and went out to prevent the noisy fellow from 
again approaching the sick-room. When he returned 
after a few minutes, he found the young mother seat- 
ed at the bedside of her child. 


THE LEAD LAKE. 


145 


“ Why are you up already ? ” he asked, reproach- 
fully. 

“Already?” she replied. “You wish to put me 
to confusion. Have you not succeeded in deceiving 
me, and taken my place through the whole of the 
night ? Why did you not let me share the night- 
watch with you ? ” 

“ Because I could easily dispense with sleep, which 
was most needful for you. And then there was noth- 
ing to he done which required help. Be of good 
cheer ; we have every reason to he satisfied with this 
night.” 

“ Then the danger is over ! Thanks he to Heaven ! ” 

“ I cannot give you that certainty,” he answered. 
“ You have promised to trust me, and can only do so 
if I conceal nothing from you. But I can give you 
the assurance that all the symptoms are as favorable 
as can he expected in this disease. The inmates of 
the house are well disposed toward us, and will do 
their hest to help us.” 

A ray of pleasure brightened her pale face. “ Oh ! 
my friend,” she exclaimed, “ if it were hut possible ! ” 
She held out her hand to him, and tears stood in her 
eyes. 

He stooped to kiss her hand, hut in reality to hide 
his emotion. “ Could you have believed me capable 
of forsaking you before the child’s life was saved ? ” 
he asked. “ Do not thank me, nor imagine that I am 
sacrificing anything by remaining here. I have already 
brought you the greatest sacrifice I could offer ; all the 
rest is a relief to me.” 

7 


146 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


She looked up inquiringly. “ I am keeping you 
from other duties ? ” she asked. 

“ No,” he answered, gloomily. “ Ever since last 
year I have been an idle and restless man. Led by 
motives which cannot interest you, I once gave myself 
my word of honor never to exercise my profession as 
a doctor again. Yesterday I broke this word for your 
sake. If you will permit me to continue my attend- 
ance, you will free me from reproach, and so we shall 
be of mutual service to each other.” 

After a pause, during which he had felt the pulse 
of the child, he resumed, “ She now sleeps quietly ; 
if you wish to apprise your friends of your present 
abode, you have time to do so. The coachman, who 
is meanwhile getting ready, will post your letter at 
the next station.” 

“ I have no one who would feel anxious at my non- 
appearance,” said the lady, and blushed slightly : “ I 
live so very retired ! ” 

“ No one ? ” he repeated with surprise, and invol- 
untarily his eyes fastened on the two rings. 

She remarked his glance, and understood it in- 
stantly. “ The second ring,” she said unconstrained- 
ly, “is not the sign of a second marriage. It be- 
longed to my husband, who, feeling death approach- 
ing, drew it from his finger and begged a comrade of 
his to bring it to me. Since that day I have refused 
all solicitations to change my condition, and have only 
withdrawn from my dear husband’s family because a 
near relation of his imagines that he has some claim 
to my hand. I have vowed to live only for my child, 


THE DEAD LAKE. 147 

and to the memory of the dead, and this vow is sa- 
cred to me.” 

The nurse now awoke, and reluctantly sat up on 
her couch ; but she jumped up briskly when she saw 
her mistress and the doctor already actively employed, 
and hastened with great zeal to relieve them, protest- 
ing that it was all the doctor’s fault, as he had 
strictly forbidden her to watch. 

“ Bathe the child,” said Eberhard. “ I will now 
leave you for half an hour. Bathe the child as we 
did yesterday, and let it drink some milk, which you 
can now get fresh from the cow. And here comes a 
fresh supply of ice. You see the attendance could 
nowhere be better than it is in this desolate nook of 
the world. Fortunately an apothecary’s shop is not 
needed in this case. Good-by ; we shall soon meet 
again.” 

He bowed slightly and left the room. Then he 
walked down to the shore, loosened one of the boats 
which were chained up in the shed, and with a few pow- 
erful strokes launched the light bark into the open 
lake. The sun had not yet risen above the surround- 
ing heights, overgrown with dark pines, and the calm 
and sultry air lay heavily on the dark surface of the 
water, and oppressed the chest of the young man, who 
was fatigued by the sleepless night. He looked down 
into the depths below him, and noticed that close to 
the boat the water seemed transparent as crystal and 
nearly white, while the lake beyond, though the sky 
was bright and clear, appeared like a black, unfathom- 
able chasm. He recollected what a wood-cutter had 


148 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


once told him, that the lake was bottomless ; that its 
waters sank deeper and deeper, till at last they 
reached hell; and that when the evil spirits there 
found their abode too hot for them, they went to 
bathe in them. 

He pulled in his oars and looked up at the nearly 
perpendicular shores, which were covered with dark 
fir-woods up to their very peaks. These had exchanged 
the glow of early morning for a dull grayish tint. 
And now the sun had burst forth with great power, 
and tried to gild the ravine, which looked like a cal- 
dron of dark iron. But only a dazzling white light 
was reflected on the smooth surface of the lake. The 
dense woods which surrounded it absorbed every ray 
of sunshine. Ho cheerful light colored and enli- 
vened the dreary landscape. A small patch of green 
grass, near the inn, on which a red-brown cow grazed, 
and the blue smoke which curled up from the chim- 
ney, were the only objects that awakened the consol- 
ing thought that even in this wilderness human beings 
had found a home. An islet covered with birch-trees 
lay near the opposite shore. Eberhard rowed up to 
it, tied the boat to a post, and stripped off his clothes 
to enjoy an early bath. 

Suddenly the thought struck him, with what inten- 
tion he had arrived yesterday. He shuddered. It 
seemed to him as if his resolve would be fulfilled, 
even against his will ; as if he had pledged himself to 
that perfidious depth, which would claim him for its 
own. One moment he felt tempted to put on his 
clothes again, and to row back as fast as he could ; 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


149 

but, ashamed of his weakness, he shook off these fan- 
cies and boldly jumped into the water. 

The cold Alpine waves closed round him like ice 
just melted by the sun, and he had to exert all his 
knowledge of swimming to keep his blood, by con- 
tinual movement, from congealing. When he stepped 
out of the water, and, leaning against the stem of a 
young birch, his feet buried in the soft moss, dried 
himself briskly, he felt happier than he had done for 
many a day. He looked toward the house. In the 
room where the child lay he could see some one mov- 
ing near the window. The distance was too great to 
distinguish the figure, still less the features ; yet it 
pleased him to think that among the inmates of that 
house there were some who needed him, and had 
placed their hopes in him. 

Meanwhile the child in the sick-room raised her- 
self in her bed, looking searchingly round the room, 
and said, “ Has papa gone away ? is he again dead ? 
I want him to sit beside me.” 

Her mother kissed the child’s forehead, and 
begged her to remain quiet. “ That good gentleman 
is not your papa,” she said ; “ you must not call 
him so. He is the doctor, who will make you well 
again if you are a good child, and do all he tells 
you.” 

“Not my papa,” repeated the little girl medita- 
tively. She seemed to relinquish her first idea with 
difficulty. “ What is his name ? ” she resumed. 
“ Will he leave me ? ” 

“Here he comes,” said the fat nurse, who had 


150 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


tears in her eyes on hearing her darling speak calm- 
ly and sensibly for the first time for several days. 
“Just look, ma’am, how fast he rows, as if he were 
impatient to get back to our child. Well, I call that 
a doctor ! To-day he looks even handsomer than 
he did yesterday, with his fine black beard and pale 
face. Only his eyes have a stern expression, that 
would frighten one if he were not so kind.” 

They now saw him leap from the boat, but he did 
not speak to them as he passed the door, and they 
heard him give some orders to the landlady. A few 
minutes later he entered the sick-room, at once ap- 
proached the bed of the child, and talked kindly to it. 
His presence seemed to exercise a sort of charm on the 
little girl. She breathed with more ease, and closed 
her eyes at his persuasion. 

The stillness in the sick-room was so great that 
they heard the splash of the fish leaping in the water. 
After some time he rose, and whispered, “ She sleeps ; 
the fever has abated. I hope she may be able to rest 
for a few hours, and I will take care that no one dis- 
turbs her. I will now lie down for a short while, till 
the chicken-broth I have ordered for our little patient 
is ready.” 

“ How can I ever express my thanks to you for all 
your kindness and solicitude?” observed the child’s 
mother with much emotion. 

“By not thanking me at all,” he replied almost 
gruffly, and left them. 

When he entered his room, he found the letter he 
had written the night before still lying on the table. 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


151 


The large red seal now seemed offensive to his eyes, 
yet he could not make up his mind to destroy it ; so 
he put it by in his portfolio. He then threw himself 
on his bed, and tried to sleep ; but the thick-coming 
thoughts beset him like buzzing flies. He fancied he 
heard the child’s voice, and that of its lovely mother, 
and raised himself on his bed to listen. At length, 
after much musing and reflection, he fell into an un- 
easy sleep disturbed by dreams. 

At noon the landlady entered his room, and, seeing 
him asleep, tried to creep away noiselessly. But he 
was up in a moment, and, inquiring if the soup were 
ready, followed her into the kitchen. “ Where is the 
broth ? ” he asked, and approached the hearth whence 
a tempting odor arose from the different pots and 
pans. The stupid maid, who was stirring something 
in one of them, let fall her wooden ladle in amaze- 
ment, and stared open-mouthed at the stranger as he 
lifted the lid off one of the pots, and examined its con- 
tents with a critical eye. Then he asked for a plate, 
poured some of the chicken-broth into it, and carefully 
took out the herbs which floated on it. 

When he turned to carry away the soup, he saw 
the young mother standing at the entrance. “ Is this 
right ? ” she asked with a charming smile. “ Instead 
of sleeping, I see you have turned cook.” 

“I only cook for my patients,” he replied. “The 
care of preparing dinner for the healthy I leave to 
our hostess, who will do honor to our confidence in 
her, and needs no help of mine. Is our patient still 
asleep ? ” 


152 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


“ She awoke a moment since, and has just asked 
for you.” 

When he entered the sick-room, the child sat up- 
right in her bed, and greeted the doctor with a smile. 
Then she willingly swallowed a few spoonfuls of the 
soup which he offered her. She did not appear to be 
hungry, however, but only to do it because he wished 
it. She listened eagerly to all the doctor said. lie 
told her that in the morning he had watched the fish 
disport themselves in the lake, and promised her that 
they would go and catch some of them when she could 
leave her bed. 

After a while she again seemed to lose conscious- 
ness. Her blue eyes partially closed, and the small 
head sank back on her pillows. 

“ Be of good cheer,” said the doctor ; “ the prog- 
ress is slow but sure. Your maid must continue to 
change the ice frequently. Meanwhile we will go and 
have dinner. It is ready.” 

“ Leave me here with my child,” she whispered. 

“No,” he replied, curtly. “You must breathe the 
fresh air. We do not want another patient, and your 
pulse is much agitated. When we have dined, we 
will relieve the nurse.” 

He walked on without another word, and she dared 
not oppose him. In the shade before the house, close 
to the window of the sick-room, the cover had been 
laid for two. Just as they came out, the landlady 
brought a dish of fish, and placed it on the table ; 
these were followed by a roasted fowl. During the 
repast they hardly spoke a word to each other. Both 


THE DEAD LAKE, 


153 


were lost in thought. Now and then he would per- 
suade her, not only to take a few mouthfuls on her 
plate, hut to eat them. “ I shall he offended,” he said 
gayly, “if you eat nothing. We doctors enjoy the 
reputation of being great gourmands. I hope I have 
not disgraced my profession in this instance ? ” 

“ Pardon me if I cannot yet hear the brightness 
around me,” she said. “ My heart has been too deeply 
troubled. I have passed through such heavy storms, 
that the ground still trembles beneath me. To-mor- 
row I will behave better.” Then they both relapsed 
into silence, and gazed at the lake, over which the mid- 
day heat was brooding. A cricket chirped in the quiet 
little garden ; and within the landlord snored on his 
bench by the stove. From the shed by the lake, the 
gurgle of the waves against the softly-rocking boats 
was heard, and from the sick-room the nurse humming 
a nursery rhyme, the same with which years ago she 
had lulled the child in her cradle to sleep. 

The quiet day was followed by a restless night. 
The fever increased in violence ; the child moaned 
continually, and could hardly be kept in her bed. At 
midnight she grew calmer. 

The doctor hardly stirred from the house ; only in 
the evening he refreshed himself with a cigar out of 
doors. Then he took a turn round the house, and, 
every time he passed the window of the sick-room, 
stopped for a moment, and spoke a few words of en- 
couragement to the mother, who would not quit the 
bedside. In the night, while watching with her — the 
nurse had been sent to bed — he suddenly said : “ How 


154 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


much your child resembles you ! Just now, in this dim 
light, when you stooped over her and the little girl 
looked up to you with that peculiarly spiritual and 
precocious expression which illness gives, I could al- 
most have fancied that you were sisters. Ten years 
hence she will be your very image.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” answered the young 
mother, “ hut the resemblance is only outward ; all 
her mental qualities she inherits from her father. I 
often wonder at so great a likeness in such a young 
child, and that too a girl. Her truthfulness, her 
self-denial, her courage, often make me feel as if my 
lost husband had been given back to me in this 
child.” 

“You are mentioning qualities which, during our 
short acquaintance, I have remarked that you possess 
in a high degree.” 

She shook her head. “ If I seem courageous, it is 
only owing to my natural cowardice. When you first 
saw me I was quite broken-hearted with misery and 
anxiety ; but I dared not give vent to my feelings, for 
I knew that I should break down utterly at the sound 
of my own voice. My husband could look the most 
fearful events calmly in the face ; and so it is with the 
child. He could make any sacrifice without thinking 
of himself.” 

“ And you — I should think you did not spare your- 
self in the first days of this trial.” 

“ A mother’s heart feels no sacrifice,” she answered. 
“ But before my child was born I often had to strive 
with myself, and force myself to do what was distaste- 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


155 


ful to me for the sake of others. It is not so with the 
child, though youth generally is, and well may he, the 
season for selfishness. I could tell you a hundred traits 
of her excellent disposition. I have often felt anxious 
about her, for so precocious a tenderness of feeling is 
said to be the presage of a short life. Who can tell 
whether it may not be realized ? ” 

Eberhard looked out on the lake, and seemed not 
to have heard her last words. Suddenly he said, “ You 
have probably a portrait of your husband ; will you 
show it to me ? ” 

She took off a delicately worked Venetian chain, 
which she wore round her neck, opened the locket 
which was fastened to it, and handed it to him. 

He gazed at it for several minutes, and then silently 
gave it back to her. After a long pause he said, “Was 
it a youthful attachment? ” 

“ Not quite what is generally so called. I was cer- 
tainly very young when I made his acquaintance. Be- 
fore I saw him no man had ever made any impression 
on me ; but I hardly knew how dearly I loved him till 
a month after our marriage took place. I only learned 
to appreciate him fully during the short period of our 
union, and my love grew into a passion when I had 
lost him forever. Had you known him, you would 
have become friends ; he never had an enemy.” 

Eberhard had risen and was pacing the room with 
noiseless steps. He stooped before the table and took 
up a volume which projected from a traveling-bag. 
It was Lenau’s poems. On the fly-leaf was inscribed 
the name of Lucille. 


156 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


“ Does this poet please you ? ” asked the doctor. 

“ I hardly know whether he repels or attracts me ; 
and although I generally have a clear perception in 
such things, yet I cannot quite discover in his thoughts 
what is genuine and what is artificial. He suffered 
much, yet it often appears to me as if, by continually 
irritating them, he purposely reopened his wounds. 
I hardly know why I took this book on my journey; 
perhaps as a sort of consolation.” 

“You seek consolation with a poet so weary of 
life?” 

“ Why not ? He died mad. When I think of that 
death, the grief for my husband’s seems easier to bear ; 
for what a glorious death was granted to him / Young, 
loved by all, he died heroically for his country ! I carry 
his image undefaced in my heart, not distorted by ill- 
ness and the last agony, nor estranged from me by 
insanity. How dreadful it must be to see one dear 
to us deprived of his senses ! Do you not feel the 
same ? ” 

He was silent for a moment, and then replied by 
another question : “ So you would have thought the 
death of your husband desirable, if he had been 
doomed to life-long insanity ? ” 

“Spare me the answer. I cannot give you one 
truthfully without pain.” 

“ So much the better,” he said. She did not un- 
derstand him. A few minutes later he left the room. 

He returned an hour after midnight, and insisted 
on relieving the mother from her watch by the sick- 
bed. She could not resist his imperative manner, and 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


157 


only begged him to let her and the nurse relieve him 
alternately. He promised to do so, and this time kept 
his promise. In the morning, when Lucille awoke, 
she found the nurse alone, and heard that the doctor 
was lying on a straw mattress in the tap-room to he 
near at hand in case of need. 

A week had passed since these events, and Eber- 
hard again sat in his little room at the crazy table, and 
the candle cast the same dim flickering light as on 
that first occasion ; only the moon shone so brightly 
through the casement, that one could easily have dis- 
pensed with any other light. Eberhard had just pe- 
rused the letter written on that dark and gloomy 
night, and was now adding a postscript on the blank 
page. 

“ A w*eek older, Charles ; and yet a week younger ! 
When I look at my face, and compare it with the aged 
features which appear to me in these pages, then I find 
that I have made the most retrograde movement, and 
have again arrived at an age at which even you did 
not know me ; at a time when I never thought of death, 
though I touched it daily with my dissecting knife. 
Then I had no more thought of it than a child’s doctor 
has of catching the measles. I have now studied the 
morbid symptoms in my letter, as coolly as I once did 
the strange countenance of No. So-and-so in the hos- 
pital. 

“ You will be glad to hear that I have surmounted 
my last crisis ; but I, when I search my thoughts, can 
only deplore this. 


158 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


“Everything was ready for my departure, my 
trunks so nicely packed, the last leavetakings ex- 
changed ; I heard the shrill whistle of the engine. Sud- 
denly I am told that I have missed the train ; and so I 
remain, not at home nor abroad, but sitting at the rail- 
way station in a most provoking position. It seems 
ridiculous to have to stay and unpack, after all these 
preparations for departure. How it all happened I 
will tell you in a few words, lest you should think that 
cowardice overcame me at the last moment ; that I re- 
gretted to leave this life, and persuaded myself that 
after all it was the best. No, it was not that which 
played me this trick ; it was my old passion, my pro- 
fession ! I found it of more importance to save a 
young life than to dispatch my own, so prematurely 
old. The child in question was well worth the trouble, 
that I can tell you. And as for the mother ! don’t 
fancy that I have fallen in love ; you would be mis- 
taken. Or do you call love the feelings of a poor devil 
of a miner, who, after having been buried in a coal-pit, 
is brought to life again and rejoices in the first breath 
of fresh air ? Do not be afraid that I shall give you 
a description of this young woman’s charms. Whether 
she be handsome, amiable (what is usually so called), 
clever, or whether she possess all those qualities, the 
description of which generally fills columns, I know 
not. All I know is, that in her presence I forget my 
existence, the past, the future. All I feel is, that she 
is there beside me, and that I would desire nothing 
more to all eternity than that she should remain so. 
Do you recollect how strange it once seemed to us that 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


159 


the same passionate poet, from whose brain proceeded 
‘ W erther,’ should have expressed such tame feelings 
as these ? — 

1 Gaze at the moon, 

Or think of thee, 

I fancy ’tis the same. 

All in a holy light I see, 

And know not how it came.’ 


“ And now, to my shame be it spoken, I experience 
the same feelings in myself. This lunacy, as we jest- 
ingly called it, has taken such possession of me, that 
my only desire at present is, that through all the fu- 
ture years of my life I might live as in one long night, 
surrounded by the pale veiled halo which now calms 
my soul. 

“ This is but a dream. Ere long I must insist on 
my little patient’s departure to more civilized regions, 
where she will be better provided for during her con- 
valescence than she can be here, where chicken-broth 
is the landlady’s sole culinary achievement. Then I 
shall become unnecessary, and can bid farewell to 
the Dead Lake, and once more try to live in a world 
which after these events will seem doubly desolate to 
me. Was I not right in deploring the departure of 
the train ? By this time I should have reached my 
destination. But why should not the journey be only 
postponed for a fortnight — especially as the one I had 
intended to take does in no wise depend on the weath- 
er or the company ? I can tell you the reason, Charles ; 
I know that you will not despise me for it. My cour- 


160 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


age is gone ! Is it so very despicable that I now dread 
that gloomy depth into which a week ago I was will- 
ing to plunge — now that I have found a place of rest 
up here in the daylight ? And though in a few days 
I shall he again roaming about, like the wandering 
unsettled savage I was up to this last week, yet noth- 
ing can ever efface from my heart the feeling that 
somewhere between heaven and earth there is a corner 
where I could live in repose ; where, like that matri- 
cide in Sophocles, I had found a sanctuary from which, 
awed by the holiness of the refuge, even the Furies 
keep aloof, and dare not sully the threshold. 

“Unfortunately, it is perfectly clear to me that 
from her I also must keep aloof. This woman, even 
if I ventured to offer her my unamiable society for the 
remainder of my life, could but politely decline. She 
has made a vow to remain faithful to the memory of 
her dead husband. What is a vow ? Ought it to be 
a chain to bind and check our very existence, after we 
have outgrown our former selves ? In the course of 
seven years the physical part of man is completely 
renewed ; and is our spiritual part, surrounded by new 
flesh and blood, to remain the same, because some mis- 
anthrope doubted his own power of revival ? Have 
I not also broken my vow never again to approach a 
sick-bed ? And I even deem this to be rather to my 
credit than my shame. But the vow of this woman 
is raised far above the fickleness of human wishes and 
resolves. She wishes me well ; I could find no truer 
friend in need than she would prove. She would 
make any sacrifice but this for me, who have saved 


THE BEAD LAKE. 


161 


her child ; but her whole existence, her heart and 
soul, are riveted to the memory of her own past hap- 
piness, and to the future happiness of her child. And 
for me, to whom the present alone is of importance, 
I have carefully avoided the question as to where she 
lives, in what town, under what circumstances, in 
what neighborhood. I will part from her without 
knowing anything of this, lest I should be tempted to 
seek her, and endeavor to make the impossible possible. 

“ A few days more of the happiness of this singular 
position, in this solitary wilderness among the moun- 
tains, far from all the littleness and miseries of the 
world, and as if we were in heaven, where there is 
neither giving in marriage nor parting ; then come 
what may — what must ! 

“ In truth, it is a strange and cruel remedy which 
fate has employed, making a deep incision in my 
heart, in order to convince me how little I was ripe 
for death ; how much strength and feeling there was 
still in me ; how much I could yet endure ! 

“ Enough of this for to-day. We live here totally 
deprived of all postal communication. When and 
where I shall close this letter and forward it, the gods 
only know, if indeed they concern themselves with 
our correspondence. Farewell ! ” 

He laid down the pen and listened. From the 
sick-room the child’s soft prattle was heard, and, 
though free from the restless and rambling tone of 
fever, yet it was an unusually late hour for her to be 
awake. lie also heard the soft voice of the mother 


162 


THE DEAD LAKE . 


calming it by a few soothing words. When Eberhard 
entered the room the child was already fast asleep. 

“ She has just been dreaming of you,” said the 
mother, turning toward him with one of her charming 
smiles. “ She told me she dreamt that you had given 
her a white lamb, with a red ribbon round its neck, 
which took food from her hand. She had possessed 
it for some time when it suddenly occurred to her 
that she had not thanked you for it ; so she begged 
me to call you that she might repair this neglect.” 

“ And why did you not call me ? ” asked the doctor. 

“ I told her that her uncle Eberhard would never 
listen to any thanks ; that mamma, too, had received 
a gift from him for which she never, never could 
thank him sufficiently ; and that the best way to thank 
him was to be a good child and go to sleep again. 
You should have seen how earnestly the dear child 
tried, after this, to go to sleep. You see she is asleep 
already, and her forehead is moist. You have more 
influence over her than any other person has.” 

He thoughtfully contemplated the childish face. 

“ I regret that I am not a princess,” Lucille con- 
tinued with a slight blush ; “ for then I could offer 
you a place at my court, and beg you to accompany 
me on my travels in the capacity of court physician. 
I cannot imagine what we shall do without you ; at 
every cold little Fanny catches, we shall miss you 
sadly. And yet I am content with my station in life. 
A princess would perhaps presume that she could re- 
pay you for your devotion to her child by offering 
you an establishment. I cannot regret the feeling 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


163 


that I can never repay you for all your generosity.” 
She stretched out her hand to him, which he pressed, 
strangely moved, to his lips. 

“ Madame Lucille,” he said, without continuing 
the subject, “ it is now eleven o’clock ; it is my turn 
to watch, and you are relieved.” 

“No,” she answered gayly, “I am not quite so 
obedient as our little Fan, or rather sleep does not so 
readily obey my call. You must allow me to remain 
awake for another hour ; and if you are not tired, 
you shall read aloud to me. I have seen a volume of 
Goethe’s works in your hands. I admire him above 
all other poets, and wish to get more fully acquainted 
with him ; for I must confess to my shame that, on 
looking through your volume the other day, I remarked 
that most of its contents were unknown to me.” 

“ As you please,” he said ; “ but most of its con- 
tents will remain forever new to you, were you to 
hear them ever so often. At least that is my experi- 
ence of them.” 

He fetched the book, the first volume of the poems, 
and, without selecting any particular poem, began at 
the first page. He lowered his voice, but read without 
any studied art of delivery. Never had he so keenly 
and clearly felt the charm of the everlasting spring 
which emanates from the blossoms of the poet’s youth- 
ful ardor. 

He dared not look at her w'hile he read, fearing 
to meet the mute inquiry in the eyes of the young 
woman. But when he came to “ The Hunter’s Even- 
ing Song,” he with difficulty faltered out the words — 


164 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


“ Gaze at the moon, 

Or think of thee, 

I fancy ’tis the same. 

All in a holy light I see, 

And know not how it came ! ” 

Suddenly he stopped, let the hook glide on to the 
bed, and rose hastily. 

“ What has happened ? ” she asked, startled. 

“ Go and rest,” he replied with averted face. “ W ake 
the nurse ; she can take my watch for this night. The 
atmosphere here oppresses me ; I must breathe the fresh 
air ; I already feel better since I have risen. I will go 
and take a row on the lake.” 

So saying he disappeared, leaving her with all her 
feelings in a state of tumultuous disturbance at the 
enigma she dared not solve. 

The next day, at their early meeting, they succeed- 
ed in assuming the gay and unconstrained tone which 
had hitherto existed between them. The child assist- 
ed them in their efforts. The night had been quiet and 
refreshing, and a bath which had been prepared for 
her, under Eberhard’s superintendence, in an old wash- 
ing-tub of the landlady’s, had greatly revived her, and 
had sent her off into another long sleep. Toward even- 
ing the doctor brought home from his walk different 
kinds of ferns, gentians, and gayly-colored pebbles, 
which he had found near the rocks. He sat down by 
Fanny’s bedside, and told her all about the birds and 
other small animals which he had met in his wander- 
ings over the heights. He was pleased at the intelli- 
gent questions the child put to him, as she sat up in 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


165 


bed and admired with wide-opened eyes the treasures 
he had laid on her coverlet. The mother sat beside 
them working at a piece of embroidery. From the 
kitchen without was heard the crackling of the fire on 
the hearth, over which the child’s soup was being pre- 
pared. Eberhard did not relinquish his night-watch 
this time, but no more was said of reading aloud. 
Neither was there any mention made of it during the 
following nights, and indeed no occasion for it pre- 
sented itself. The night-watching had now become 
almost unnecessary, so that the doctor could, without 
further apprehension, remain a good deal in his room. 
Even in the daytime, now that the child was allowed 
to be up for several hours, he seldom appeared. But 
often, under pretext of fishing, he would row over to 
the islet, whence he did not return till late in the 
evening ; or he would roam through the pine-woods, 
and the ravine, and climb up to the ice-cavern. 

The farm-servant, who, hearing that the lady wished 
for the last strawberries of the season, had climbed up 
there to look for some, reported on his return that he 
had met the doctor seated on a rock, and looking like 
a man in a dream. He had bidden him good-day, and 
the doctor had started up, and with a silent nod of 
recognition had disappeared in the wood. “ He was 
evidently touched in the head,” the farm-servant con- 
tinued ; “I always said so from the moment I saw 
him sitting quite crazed like in the tap-room, and re- 
fusing all refreshment.” 

This continued during several days. In proportion 
to the progress of the child’s recovery did the doctor’s 


166 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


melancholy, from which the sudden call of duty had 
roused him, appear to increase. Those days were full 
of gloom ; he felt how necessary it was to abridge 
them. One forenoon he started without waiting for 
dinner, not caring to meet the sad, inquiring look in 
Lucille’s eyes. He climbed up the steep ravine with 
the firm resolve to arrive at a final decision. In spite 
of the fierce noonday heat, he pursued a road which 
he had recently discovered, and which led toward the 
south across the rocky ridge of the mountains. He 
knew that if he continued his walk he would reach 
before nightfall a Romansh * village, which was sepa- 
rated from the Head Lake by nearly impassable tracts 
of ice and snow. Once there, and he had achieved all 
that now seemed impossible to him ; all leavetaking 
was spared him, and he was as one dead to those to 
whom he had now become useless. 

This seemed to him the best plan, and he relied 
on his strength of will to carry it out. But when the 
last glimpse of the lake had disappeared, and he found 
himself surrounded only by the sterile wilderness of 
rocks, he felt so wretched that he could not proceed, 
but flung himself on the ground in the shade of a pro- 
jecting rock, and buried his face amid the moss and 
heather. He eagerly sought for all the reasons which 
should prevent his departure, and make his return 
necessary : his papers, his diary, which he had left in 
his room ; the anxiety his sudden disappearance would 
cause Lucille. Then he reflected that he was in duty 

* A part of Switzerland on the frontiers of Italy. — [Trans- 
lator.] 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


16 ? 


bound to provide for their departure, and for their 
safe journey to the next town. He made a solemn 
vow that all should be done that very day. He would 
send down the farm-servant to order a carriage as 
soon as he had returned to the inn. In twenty-four 
hours everything would be accomplished, and the sepa- 
ration irrevocable. After that he did not care what 
happened. 

When he had firmly settled this in his mind, he 
felt relieved, and hastily arose to reach the inn with- 
out further delay. He resolved to be cheerful, and 
to enjoy the few hours that remained to him of her 
society as if they were to last forever. He regretted 
having imbittered many a day by the thought of the 
approaching end. He plucked a bunch of scentless 
Alpine flowers and ferns ; it should be his farewell 
token to little Fanny. So thinking, he rapidly de- 
scended the steep mountain, and reached the last firs 
in the ravine when the greatest heat of the day was 
over. Below him lay the lake. Hot the slightest 
breeze ruffled its calm surface, which clearly reflected 
the small meadow on the opposite shore, the firs on 
the steep slope above it, and beyond these the bare 
gray rocks and crags. Then he looked toward the 
fisherman’s house. His quick eye discerned every 
shingle on its stone-laden roof ; in the yard, the old 
hen followed by her yellow brood, and the linen hung 
out on ropes to dry. Those who lived beneath that 
lowly roof were nowhere to be seen. Generally, at 
this time of the day, every one dozed over some slight 
work ; so Eberhard was much surprised when he saw 


168 


THE LEAD LAKE. 


the door of the house open, and a perfect strangei 
step out into the bright sunshine. He was a tall young 
man dressed in a light summer costume. His face 
was partly shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat, and 
only a fair mustache of a military cut was visible 
underneath it. 

The new-comer stood still for a few minutes, looked 
around him as if to examine the weather, and then 
eagerly talked through the open door to some one who 
had not yet appeared. A few minutes later Lucille 
joined him, without a hat, only holding a large para- 
sol to protect her delicate complexion from the sun. 
She accompanied the stranger to the shed on the lake, 
and a moment after Eberhard saw them both issue 
from it in one of the boats, and take the direction 
across the smooth lake toward the islet. The stranger 
wielded the oars so dexterously that they soon reached 
their destination ; then, leaping on shore, he assisted 
Lucille to get out. They walked along the shore, 
wending their way between the birches and the high 
bulrushes, apparently with the intention of making 
the circuit of the small island. Eberhard’s heart 
throbbed so wildly that he had to lean against the 
stem of a fir-tree till the first giddiness had passed. 

Who was the new-comer, who seemed so intimate 
with her that she followed him on his boating excur- 
sions, and thus granted him what she had ever refused 
to Eberhard, her friend and helper ? Who was this 
stranger, that she leaned on his arm, and, while walk- 
ing by his side and gayly conversing with him, seemed 
even to forget her child, and abandoned it to the care 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


169 


of the nurse ? W ell, whoever it was, he had arrived 
just in time to wake them all out of the dream into 
which the solitary stillness of the place had lulled 
them. 

Doubtless the sight of this old acquaintance brought 
back to Lucille’s remembrance all that she had forgot- 
ten at the bedside of her child — her intercourse with 
the outer world, her friends and admirers ; recollec- 
tions to which Eberhard would ever remain a stranger, 
and which summoned her back to a life in which he 
could have no share. So much the better ! It could 
but facilitate the execution of his resolves, and con- 
firm the urgency of a separation. 

He felt it was impossible to share her presence with 
a third. He strode down the precipitous path, and 
reached the house greatly exhausted, and his knees 
knocking under him. He remarked a traveling-car- 
riage which stood beside the shed, and in the stables, 
in which a cow was kept during the winter, two horses 
were tied to the manger. Without heeding the land- 
lady, who was dying to tell him the news, he walked 
straight into the room where the child sat at the table 
playing with a new doll. 

“ Uncle Max is here,” she cried out to him, her 
face beaming with joy. “ He has brought me a doll 
that can move its eyes ; then he dined with mamma, 
and now they are both on the island. They will soon 
return, however, as Uncle Max means to take us away in 
his large traveling-carriage ; but mamma said that she 
would not move a step without your special consent.” 

“ Fanny,” he said, and took the child’s curly head 

8 


170 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


between bis bands, “ you won’t forget me, though I 
cannot offer you a beautiful doll, but only a simple 
bunch of flowers ? ” 

The child looked up surprised. “ Mamma said that 
after the good God I should love you best, because 
you have saved my life. I love you better than all 
other people ; but mamma I love best of all.” 

He stooped over the fair face, and kissed the child’s 
truthful, loving eyes, and her pale lips. 

“ You are right, little Fan,” said he, speaking with 
difficulty ; “ she deserves your love. Here is my bou- 
quet, and give her my compliments.” He turned 
toward the door. 

“ What, are you going away ? ” the child called af- 
ter him ; “ won’t you come and tell me some nice 
story ? ” 

“ Another time,” was all he could say. The nurse, 
who just then came in, tried to detain him, and won- 
dered at his disturbed appearance ; but he passed her 
by, and hastening to his own room locked the door be- 
hind him. 

Once more alone, he was so overcome by the agony 
of his feelings that he dropped into a chair, and his 
strong frame shook with convulsive though tearless 
sobs. But he promptly recovered himself, pressed his 
hand to his heart as if to still its throbbings, and pro- 
ceeded to stuff his few possessions into his traveling- 
bag, keeping back his portfolio. Then he sat down 
at the table, and mechanically took out the letter to 
his friend as if to add another postscript ; but he 
vainly sought for words, and he finally laid it down, 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


171 


took up another sheet, and began to write a short ac- 
count of the child’s illness, with the intention of leav- 
ing it to Lucille in case she should find another con- 
sultation necessary. 

He found a certain satisfaction in clearly wording 
his statement, and in perceiving how steadily his hand 
wielded the pen. “ At least I have not yet lost my 
senses,” he said aloud. 

He had just finished this writing when a man’s 
quick step was heard approaching his room, and then 
came a knock at the door. He rose with an angry 
feeling. He could not deny his presence, and yet this 
meeting was intensely distasteful to him. He unlocked 
the door with a countenance which was anything hut 
inviting. The mustached stranger, however, entered 
with the most amiable air. Apparently he did not 
expect a very gracious reception, but seemed fully de- 
termined not to let himself be put out by anything. 

“ My dear doctor,” he exclaimed in an engaging 
manner, and with a friendly shake of the hand, “ pray 
excuse my intruding on you. Lucille has told me that 
you refuse to listen to any thanks, but I am not to be 
daunted ; I am a soldier, and would think it dishonor- 
able to be afraid of anything, even of the glum face 
of a benefactor ; and so I boldly express my thanks, 
at the risk of being challenged by you afterward, and 
tell you that I shall always feel indebted to you, and 
that you can command my services at any time as you 
would those of your oldest friend. You have worked 
wonders, you best of doctors ! Not only with the little 
one, whose welfare I have at heart as though it were 


172 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


my own child, but above all with the mother — I can 
assure you that I hardly recognized her. From the 
time when her husband, my dear brother, was buried 
with his comrades in one common grave on the field 
of battle, her widowed grief, up to a few weeks ago, 
had always remained the same. All the efforts of her 
friends to restore her to her former cheerfulness were 
vain. Seven years ! In truth, I should say that the 
most legitimate grief might be overcome in that time. 
Between ourselves, be it said, though I sincerely loved 
my brother, yet I found these seven years unconscion- 
ably long. Lucille was my lady-love as well as my 
brother’s ; but then I was only a good-for-nothing 
lieutenant, and so I had to yield the precedence to my 
brother Victor. Now it seems to me that I have every 
right to assert my claim, considering that it is of such 
long standing. Don’t you think so, doctor ? But in 
spite of my perseverance through all these years, not 
the slightest ray of hope has ever been granted to me. 
I wished to accompany her on this visit to the grave ; 
but no, my request was mercilessly refused. Wait 
till she has returned, I said to myself ; who knows but 
this visit may be the last stage of her conjugal grief ? 
So I waited for her return, or at least for a letter ; but 
when three weeks had passed without any tidings of 
her, fearing that some misfortune had happened, I took 
leave of absence from my regiment, and traced her 
steps till I found her here at the Dead Lake — not the 
cold and reserved Lucille of old, but a totally changed 
being. The gratitude she feels for the preservation of 
her child seems to have reconciled her to life, and con- 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


173 


sequently it will be to you alone that I shall owe my 
thanks, should I one day be allowed to give her a far 
dearer name than that of sister. She owns that it is 
you who have broken the ice, and talks of you with 
so much enthusiasm that, if I did not know that it 
overflowed from the abundant thankfulness of her ma- 
ternal heart, I should feel jealous of you.” 

A short silence followed this artless avowal, during 
which the young officer paced the room ; then he 
walked to the casement, and rapped his fingers against 
the low ceiling. 

" Well,” he exclaimed, with his good-humored 
laugh, “ you doctors are certainly not more fastidious 
than we soldiers ! How did you manage to hold out 
in this dismal hole ? We will now try to make you 
as comfortable as possible, for of course you are com- 
ing with us. Lucille would never reconcile herself to 
the thought of losing her court physician.” 

“ I much regret,” answered Eberhard, in a calm 
voice, “ that Madame Lucille is mistaken in this case. 
The child can travel without the least danger ; it is 
even necessary that she should leave this place, where 
the food is not adapted to her delicate state of health. 
I had determined to order a traveling-carriage for to- 
morrow, when I perceived your carriage. I could not 
place the ladies under better protection than yours, so 
you must pardon me if I leave you to-day.” 

“ Impossible ! ” cried the young officer, in a tone 
of the most sincere dismay. “ What a desperate clamor 
the women would set up at your leaving us so sud- 
denly ! Lucille, little Fan, even the nurse, would cling 


174 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


to your coat-tails ; I should have to arrest you by 
barring the way with my sword.” 

“Possibly they may augment the difficulties of 
this inevitable and necessary step,” remarked the doc- 
tor, with a grave face ; “ so the best plan will be not 
to mention my resolve, and at nightfall I can easily 
depart without any leavetaking. Here is a report of 
the child’s illness ; take the paper with you, but I 
trust it will not be required. If you go only short 
days’ journeys, the drive at this season will probably 
be beneficial to the health of the little patient. And 
so permit me to bid you good-by. I beg you to pre- 
sent my compliments to your sister-in-law.” 

“ Doctor, this cannot be your final decision ; I 
hope you will yet change your mind. Meanwhile I 
will take this statement and leave you, for I fear I 
have disturbed you while writing. Au revoir .” 

“ Do not betray me,” Eberhard called after him. 
The young officer put his finger to his lips, and hast- 
ened through the tap-room whistling a merry tune. 

Eberhard had hardly been alone for ten minutes, 
pacing his room like a prisoner who is meditating how 
he can escape from his bare and narrow cell, when he 
suddenly heard the outer door again open, and a step 
which sent the blood to his heart approach his room. 

44 Is my cup of bitterness not yet full ? ” he mur- 
mured to himself. 

The door opened, and Lucille stood before him 
with an expression in her eyes which utterly discon- 
certed him and forced him to cast his down. 

“ Pardon me, my friend,” she said, in an agitated 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


175 


voice, “ if once more I intrude on your solitude, though 
you so evidently avoid me. You even intend to leave 
us without a word of farewell. My brother-in-law did 
not admit this ; but I was aware of it from his man- 
ner when he left your room, and as I have long sus- 
pected this to be your intention, I was not much as- 
tonished, though greatly grieved. I owe you so much 
that it would be useless again to repeat my thanks be- 
fore we part ; but it is not generous in you to deprive 
me of all opportunity of rendering you any service, or 
of showing you the deep interest I feel in you. I am 
persuaded that my friendship is not incapable of giv- 
ing you relief if you would but return the confidence 
with which I have always treated you from the first 
hour we met. A secret grief consumes you. What 
would I not give to be able to aid you in bearing the 
load which oppresses you ! Now, could I leave you, 
perhaps never to meet you again, and have to reproach 
myself with the thought that, although knowing that 
you, dearest and most devoted of friends, were suffer- 
ing deeply, I yet allowed a miserable fear of appear- 
ing curious and importunate to deter me from making 
any attempt to assuage those sufferings or to learn 
their cause ? No,” she continued, with heightened 
color, “ I know that you are not selfish enough to bur- 
den me with this unbearable grief and remorse, only 
because it humbles your pride to acknowledge your 
sufferings to a woman.” 

He did not once interrupt her, but stood with his 
eyes fixed on the ground. When she had ceased speak- 
ing, he made an effort to answer her, but he did not 


176 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


look up. “ Thank you,” he said. “ I know that your 
questions proceed from the kindness and benevolence 
of your heart ; and be assured that if the weight 
which oppresses me could be lightened by human 
means, I would apply to you for help. I was enabled 
to come to your aid ; why therefore should I not ac- 
cept succor from you ? But there are certain circum- 
stances in life which cannot be altered ; and in such 
cases I think it is foolish weakness, and even culpable, 
to give vent to useless complaints, and to importune 
one’s friends with them. Let us part. When the 
health of your child is completely restored to its for- 
mer bloom, the sad impressions connected with the re- 
membrance of the Dead Lake will vanish from your 
mind, and with them the image of a man who — ” 

Feeling that emotion was overpowering him, he 
suddenly stopped, and walked to the window to re- 
gain his composure. When after a moment he again 
turned toward Lucille, he saw her leaning against the 
door-post, pale as death and with the same pained ex- 
pression on her countenance that he had noticed the 
first day of her arrival. 

“ Good heavens, what ails you ? ” exclaimed he. 
“ Know then, if you cannot bear the feeling of being 
indebted to me, that we are quits. If I have succeed- 
ed in saving the life of your child, you have fully 
acquitted this debt by preserving my own life.” 

She looked up with surprise. 

“ Yes,” he continued ; “ on that very table, on the 
night I first met you, I wrote a farewell letter to life. 
The letter still lies there, so you see that I have 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


177 


changed my resolution. I do not say that I feel 
grateful to you for it. Possibly non-existence has 
its dark side too, but it cannot be worse than remain- 
ing between life and death, neither suited to the one 
nor prepared for the other. Enough of this ! Is it 
your fault if the life which you have saved was not 
worth the trouble ? Do not let us prolong so painful 
a meeting. Our paths now diverge. You return to 
your home, I — go where fate leads me. I am driven 
on by my destiny like a stone which a boy rolls be- 
fore him. I thank you for the happy days I have 
spent in this wilderness ; they have been the first, for 
a long time, in which I felt that I lived. It is a pity 
that they must pass away like everything else in this 
perishable world.” 

“ And why must they pass away ? ” she asked, 
looking up with anxious and imploring eyes. “ Why 
will you not accompany us ? ” 

“ Why ? because — ” he suddenly stopped. Ilis 
eyes, while wandering round the room, had fastened 
on the letter to his friend, which lay on the table, be- 
side the traveling-bag. A sudden thought flashed 
through his mind. “ You wish to test the value I set 
on your friendship, and that it is not pride which 
prevents me from availing myself of your kindness. 
Well, then, take this letter, but promise not to read 
it before to-morrow. Will you promise this ? ” 

She only bowed without looking at him. 

“ This letter contains every explanation which I 
could not bring myself to utter. When you have 
read it, you will understand that I can no longer 


178 


THE DEAD LAKE . 


remain here, and that you ought not to detain me. 
And now give me your hand once more. Let me also 
thank you again for the happiness of knowing you ! ” 
He pressed her hand to his lips with much emotion. 
“ Embrace your child to-morrow when you have read 
the letter, and then — but I need not ask you for this 
— then, in spite of all, think kindly of me. I know 
that you will do so ; have you not the heart and soul 
of an angel ? ” 

He hastened from the room and passed through 
the empty passage. He heard Fanny’s voice in the 
sitting-room ; she was talking with the nurse, and 
mentioned his name. This accelerated his steps. He 
had just presence of mind enough left him to throw a 
handful of money to the landlady, and to bid her good- 
by ; then he followed the cart-track which led into the 
valley, and hastily turned round the first corner with- 
out looking back. After he had walked for a quarter 
of an hour, unconscious of all around him, only blindly 
driven on by the dim feeling that if he once looked 
back his strength would fail him, it suddenly occurred 
to him that he was walking northward in the direction 
of Germany, instead of turning toward the lakes of 
Lombardy, as he had at first intended. “ What does 
it matter ? ” he said to himself. “ What is home to 
me ? Am I not everywhere a stranger ? ” He descend- 
ed to the bed of the mountain-stream which flowed by 
the roadside. There he rested for a while, bathed his 
feverish brow with the cold water, and listened to its 
gurgle as it flowed over the pebbly bed. The sound 
reminded him of Fanny’s clear voice when she laughed 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


179 


for tlie first time after her illness. This recollection 
so overpowered him that the tears streamed from his 
eyes, and he let his grief take its course without try- 
ing to check it. 

A cart which passed him in its slow progress up the 
hill roused him from his painful thoughts. It occurred 
to him that the carter would stop at the inn, and there 
probably see Lucille and her child. That happiness 
would never be his again ! However, he remained firm 
to his resolve, and wandered on till he felt, in his 
trembling knees and exhausted frame, how deeply the 
last few hours had affected him. 

He had now reached a more expanded part of the 
valley ; he sat down beside a small shed which had 
formerly served as shelter to the workmen of a quarry. 
His head sank on his chest, and he was soon absorbed 
in gloomy thoughts and reveries. 

An hour passed and found him still sitting there 
half stupefied, neither feeling pain nor wishing for any- 
thing. He only heard the rushing of the waters, and 
stared vacantly at the stones and mosses at his feet. 
Suddenly he started up, the tread of horses was heard, 
and the grating sound of the heavy drag as a carriage 
proceeded slowly down the hill. A secret presenti- 
ment thrilled through him ; he looked up with a feel- 
ing of terror, and to his dismay recognized the carriage 
of the young officer. 

On the box beside the coachman was seated the 
nurse, her fat good-humored face shaded by a large 
straw hat and a blue veil, though the sun had now 
sunk low, and only a few slanting rays reached the 


180 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


deep glen. His first thought was to spring up and fly 
before them. But even if he could have got in ad- 
vance of them here on this steep road, once in the 
plain they could speedily overtake him ; so he had no 
chance of escaping. He stealthily rose and approached 
the door of the hut. “ They have not yet seen me,” 
he murmured ; “ they will drive past, and then this 
last pain will have been overcome ; but why could 
they not have spared me this ? ” 

He entered the shed, half ashamed of slinking 
away and hiding like an outlaw. 

Through all those days of inward strife he had 
never felt so thoroughly wretched and unhappy as he 
did at that moment. How, when his last strength was 
exhausted, he had to witness the triumphant progress 
of one to whom he bitterly grudged the prize that was 
denied him. 

Cautiously he pressed against the wooden partition 
of the hut ; he could not refrain from looking through 
the small aperture which stood in lieu of a window, 
and once more gaze on those dear faces. 

They were now so close to him that he could exam- 
ine the inside of the carriage. On the farther side 
lay the child asleep, wrapped up in blankets and cloaks. 
Lucille sat beside her, and held her hand, but her eyes 
searchingly scanned the road. Where was her young 
protector ? “ He will follow on foot,” thought Eber- 
hard. “ Thank Heaven they have passed ; now all is 
over ! ” 

Suddenly the carriage stopped. The coachman 
jumped off his seat, and opened the door. Lucille 


THE DEAD LAKE \ 


181 


hastily descended and walked toward the hut. A few 
moments later, and she stood, with a bright flush on 
her cheek, before the bewildered young man. 

“ You see that all your resistance is vain, my dear 
friend,” she said in a trembling voice. “You wished 
to escape, but we follow you ; we discover your hiding- 
place, and now hold you fast in spite of your resistance. 
We cannot do without you, you must — ” 

“ For Heaven’s sake,” he cried, greatly agitated, 
“ what has happened ? Has the child had another at- 
tack?” 

“ Our child sleeps,” said the charming woman, and 
her voice sank low ; “ but still we want you, my dear 
friend. This time — this time it is the mother who 
intrusts her life to you.” 

“ Lucille ! ” he exclaimed, wellnigh distracted, 
and, seizing the hand which she offered him, drew her 
into the hut. “ Can I — may I hope ? Will you in- 
deed— ” 

“I must ask you to pardon me,” she replied, blush- 
ing still more deeply ; “ I could not wait till to-mor- 
row, but read your letter the moment you were gone. 
Then I may as well confess all — I had to sustain a 
severe conflict within me ; but I soon felt that I never 
could again arrive at a clear understanding of my own 
heart, if I let you go. You have broken your vow, 
and have resolved to bear life for my sake. I can only 
return this by surrendering myself to you. He to 
whom I pledged my faith never had another wish dur- 
ing his life than to see me happy. I am convinced 
that if I could now explain to him how all this has 


182 


THE DEAD LAKE. 


happened, he would release me from my word. When 
I had clearly perceived this, I could find no rest. I 
have confided everything to my brother-in-law. He 
has remained behind with a heavy heart ; but he 
told me to shake hands with you in his name. ‘ If he 
can make you happy, Lucille,’ these were his last 
words, ‘I will try not to hate him.’ Will you make 
the trial, my dear friend ? ” 

Unable to contain himself any longer, he fell on 
his knees at her feet, clung to her hands, and buried 
his face in the folds of her dress. He could not utter 
a word except her name, which he stammered out re- 
peatedly in faltering accents. 

“ How is this ? ” she whispered. “ Overcome this 
emotion, and be a man. You ought to be my support ; 
I must look up to you. Have I not done so during all 
these days ? ” 

He rose slowly. “ Pardon me, darling,” he said, 
pressing her to his heart, and ratifying on her lips a 
mute vow. “ My knees could no longer support me. 
This day has brought me too much misery and bliss. 
Now I am strong again ; now my heart can once more 
sustain hope and happiness. Let us walk to the car- 
riage ; I am impatient to embrace our child.” 


THE FURY 

(I/ARRABIATA). 


The day had scarcely dawned. Over Vesuvius 
hung one broad gray stripe of mist, stretching across 
as far as Naples, and darkening all the small towns 
along the coast. The sea lay calm. Along the shore 
of the narrow creek that lies beneath the Sorrento 
cliffs, fishermen and their wives were at work already, 
some with giant cables drawing their boats to land, 
with the nets that had been cast the night before, 
while others were rigging their craft, trimming the 
sails, or fetching out oars and masts from the great 
grated vaults that have been built deep into the rocks 
for shelter to the tackle overnight. Nowhere an idle 
hand ; even the very aged, who had long given up 
going to sea, fell into the long chain of those who 
were hauling in the nets. Here and there, on some 
flat housetop, an old woman stood and spun, or busied 
herself about her grandchildren, whom their mother 
had left to help her husband. 

“ Do you see, Rachela ? yonder is our padre cu- 


184 


THE FURY. 


rato,” said one to a little thing of ten, who brandished 
a small spindle by her side ; “ Antonio is to row him 
over to Capri. Madre Santissima ! but the reverend 
signore’s eyes are dull with sleep ! ” and she waved 
her hand to a benevolent-looking little priest, who 
was settling himself in the boat, and spreading out 
upon the bench his carefully tucked-up skirts. 

The men upon the quay had dropped their work 
to see their pastor off, who bowed and nodded kindly, 
right and left. 

“ What for must he go to Capri, granny ? ” asked 
the child. “ Have the people there no priest of their 
own, that they must borrow ours ? ” 

“ Silly thing ! ” returned the granny. “ Priests 
they have in plenty — and the most beautiful of 
churches, and a hermit too, which is more than we 
have. But there lives a great signora, who once 
lived here ; she was so very ill ! Many’s the time 
our padre had to go and take the Most Holy to her, 
when they thought she could not live the night. But 
with the Blessed Virgin’s help she got strong and 
well, and was able to bathe every day in the sea. 
When she went away, she left a fine heap of ducats 
behind her for our church, and for the poor ; and she 
would not go, they say, until our padre promised to 
go and see her over there, that she might confess to 
him as before. It is quite wonderful, the store she 
lays by him ! Indeed, and we have cause to bless 
ourselves for having a curato who has gifts enough 
for an archbishop, and is in such request with all the 
great folks. The Madonna be with him ! ” she cried, 


THE FURY. 


185 


and waved her hand again, as the boat was about to 
put from shore. 

“ Are we to have fair weather, my son ? ” inquired 
the little priest, with an anxious look toward Naples. 

“ The sun is not yet up,” the young man an- 
swered ; “ when he comes, he will easily do for that 
small trifle of mist.” 

“ Off with you, then ! that we may arrive before 
the heat.” 

Antonio was just reaching for his long oar to shove 
away the boat, when suddenly he paused, and fixed 
his eyes upon the summit of the steep path that leads 
down from Sorrento to the water. A tall and slender 
'girlish figure had become visible upon the heights, 
and was now hastily stepping down the stones, wav- 
ing her handkerchief. She had a small bundle under 
her arm, and her dress was mean and poor. Yet she 
had a distinguished if somewhat savage way of throw- 
ing back her head, and the dark tress wreathed around 
it was like a diadem. 

“ What have we to wait for ? ” inquired the curato. 

“ There is some one coming, who wants to go to 
Capri — with your permission, padre. We shall not 
go a whit the slower. It is a slight young thing, but 
just eighteen.” 

At that moment the young girl appeared from be- 
hind the wall that bounds the winding path. 

“ Laurella ! ” cried the priest ; “ and what has she 
to do in Capri ? ” 

Antonio shrugged his shoulders. She came up 
with hasty steps, her eyes fixed straight before her. 


18G 


THE FURY. 


“ Ha ! PArrabiata ! good-morning ! ” shouted one 
or two of the young boatmen. But for the curato’s 
presence, they might have added more ; the look of 
mute defiance with w^hich the young girl received 
their welcome appeared to tempt the more mischievous 
among them. 

“ Good-day, Laurella ! ” now said the priest ; “ how 
are you ? Are you coming with us to Capri ? ” 

“ If I may, padre.” 

“ Ask Antonio there ; the boat is his. Every man 
is master of his own, I say, as God is master of us 
all.” 

“ There is half a carlino, if I may go for that ? ” 
said Laurella, without looking at the young boatman. 

“ You need it more than I,” he muttered, and 
pushed aside some orange-baskets to make room : he 
was to sell the oranges in Capri, which little isle of 
rocks has never been able to grow enough for all its 
visitors. 

/ “ I do not choose to go for nothing,” said the girl, 
with a slight frown of her dark eyebrows. 

“ Come, child,” said the priest ; “ he is a good lad, 
and had rather not enrich himself with that little mor- 
sel of your poverty. Come now, and step in,” and 
he stretched out his hand to help her, “ and sit you 
down by me. See, now, he has spread his jacket for 
you, that you may sit the softer. Young folks are 
all alike ; for one little maiden of eighteen they will 
do more than for ten of us reverend fathers. Nay, no 
excuse, Tonino. It is the Lord’s own doing, that like 
and like should hold together.” 


THE FURY. 


187 


Meantime Laurella had stepped in, and seated her- 
self beside the padre, first putting away Antonio’s 
jacket without a word. The young fellow let it lie, 
and, muttering between his teeth, he gave one vigor- 
ous push against the pier, and the little boat flew out 
I into, the open bay. 

“ What are you carrying there in that little bun- 
J die?” inquired the padre, as they were floating on 
over a calm sea, now just beginning to be lighted up 
with the earliest rays of the rising sun. 

“ Silk, thread, and a loaf, padre. The silk is to 
be sold at Anacapri, to a woman who makes ribbons, 
and the thread to another.” 

“ Spun by yourself ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ You once learned to weave ribbons yourself, if I 
remember right ? ” 

“ I did, sir ; but mother has been much worse, and 
I cannot stay so long from home ; and a loom to our- 
selves we are not rich enough to buy.” 

“Worse, is she? Ah ! dear, dear! when I was 
with you last, at Easter, she was up.” 

“ The spring is always her worst time. Ever since 
those last great storms, and the earthquakes, she has 
been forced to keep her bed from pain.” 

“Pray, my child. Never slacken your prayers 
and petitions that the Blessed Virgin may intercede 
for you ; and be industrious and good, that your 
prayers may find a hearing.” 

After a pause : “ When you were coming toward 
the shore, I heard them calling after you. ‘ Good- 


188 


THE FURY. 


morning, l’Arrabiata ! ’ they said. What made them 
call you so ? It is not a nice name for a young Chris- 
tian maiden, who should be meek and mild.” 

The young girl’s brown face glowed all over, while 
her eyes flashed fire. 

“ They always mock me so, because I do not dance 
and sing, and stand about to chatter, as other girls do. 
I might be left in peace, I think ; I do them no harm.” 

“Nay, but you might be civil. Let others dance 
and sing, on whom this life sits lighter ; but a kind 
word now and then is seemly even from the most 
afflicted.” 

Her dark eyes fell, and she drew her eyebrows 
closer over them, as if she would have hidden them. 

They went on a while in silence. The sun now 
stood resplendent above the mountain chain ; only the 
tip of Mount Vesuvius towered beyond the group of 
clouds that had gathered about its base ; and on the 
Sorrento plains the houses were gleaming white from 
the dark green of their orange-gardens. 

“ Have you heard no more of that painter, Lau- 
rella?” asked the curato — “that Neapolitan, who 
wished so much to marry you ? ” She shook her head. 
“ He came to make a picture of you. Why would 
you not let him ? ” 

“ What did he want it for ? There are handsomer 
girls than I. Who knows what he would have done 
with it ? He might have bewitched me with it, or 
hurt my soul, or even killed me, mother says.” 

“Never believe such sinful things ! ” said the little 
curato very earnestly. “ Are not you ever in God’s 


THE FURY. 


189 


keeping, without whose will not one hair of your head 
can fall ? and is one poor mortal with an image in his 
hand to prevail against the Lord ? Besides, you might 
have seen that he was fond of you ; else why should 
he want to marry you ? ” 

She said nothing. 

“ And wherefore did you refuse him ? He was an 
honest man, they say, and comely ; and he would 
have kept you and your mother far better than you 
ever can yourself, for all your spinning and silk-wind- 
ing.” 

“We are so poor!” she said passionately ; “and 
mother has been ill so long, we should have become a 
burden to him. And then I never should have done 
for a signora. When his friends came to see him, he 
would only have been ashamed of me.” 

“ How can you say so ? I tell you the man was 
good and kind ; he would even have been willing to 
settle in Sorrento. It will not be so easy to find an- 
other, sent straight from heaven to be the saving of 
you, as this man, indeed, appeared to be.” 

“I want no husband — I never shall,” she said, 
very stubbornly, half to herself. 

“ Is this a vow ? or do you mean to be a nun ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ The people are not so wrong who call you will- 
ful, although the name they give you is not kind. 
Have you ever considered that you stand alone in the 
world, and that your perverseness must make your sick 
mother’s illness worse to bear, her life more bitter ? 
And what sound reason can you have to give for 


190 


THE FURY. 


rejecting an honest hand, stretched out to help you 
and your mother ? Answer me, Laurella.” 

“ I have a reason,” she said reluctantly, and speak- 
ing low ; “ but it is one I cannot give.” 

“ Not give ! not give to me ? not to your confessor, 
whom you surely know to be your friend — or is he 
not ? ” 

Laurella nodded. 

“ Then, child, unburden your heart. If your rea- 
son he a good one, I shall he the very first to uphold 
you in it. Only you are young, and know so little of 
the world. A time may come when you will find 
cause to regret a chance of happiness thrown away for 
some foolish fancy now.” 

Shyly she threw a furtive glance over to the other 
end of the boat, where the young boatman sat, rowing 
fast. His woolen cap was pulled deep down over his 
eyes ; he was gazing far across the water, with averted 
head, sunk, as it appeared, in his own meditations. 

The priest observed her look, and bent his ear 
down closer. 

“ You did not know my father ? ” she whispered, 
while a dark look gathered in her eyes. 

“Your father, child ! Why, your father died 
when you were ten years old. What can your father 
(Heaven rest his soul in paradise !) have to do with 
this present perversity of yours ? ” 

“ You did not know him, padre ; you did not know 
that mother’s illness was caused by him alone.” 

“ And how ? ” 

“ By his ill-treatment of her ; he beat her and 


THE FURY. 


191 


trampled upon her. I well remember the nights when 
he came home in his fits of frenzy. She never said 
a word, and did everything he bade her. Yet he would 
beat her so, my heart felt ready to break. I used 
to cover up my head and pretend to be asleep, but 
I cried all night. And then, when he saw her lying 
on the fioor, quite suddenly he would change, and lift 
her up and kiss her, till she screamed and said he 
smothered her. Mother forbade me ever to say a word 
of this ; but it wore her out. And in all these long 
years since father died, she has never been able to get 
well again. And if she should soon die — which God 
forbid ! — I know who it was that killed her.” 

The little curato’s head wagged slowly to and fro ; 
he seemed uncertain how far to acquiesce in the young 
girl’s reasons. At length he said : “ Forgive him, as 
your mother has forgiven ! And turn your thoughts 
from such distressing pictures, Laurella ; there may be 
better days in store for you, which will make you 
forget the past.” 

“ Never shall I forget that ! ” she said, and shud- 
dered. “ And you must know, padre, it is the reason 
why I have resolved to remain unmarried. I never 
will be subject to a man, who may beat and then 
caress me. Were a man now to want to beat or kiss 
me, I could defend myself ; but mother could not — 
neither from his blows nor kisses — because she loved 
him. Now, I will never so love a man as to be made 
ill and wretched by him.” 

“ You are but a child, and you talk like one who 
knows nothing at all of life. Are all men like that 


192 


THE FURY. 


poor father of yours? Do all ill-treat their wives, 
and give Vent to every whim and gust of passion ? 
Have you never seen a good man yet ? or known good 
wives, who live in peace and harmony with their hus- 
bands ? ” 

“ But nobody ever knew how father was to moth- 
er ; she would have died sooner than complain or tell 
of him, and all because she loved him. If this be 
love — if love can close our lips when they should cry 
out for help — if it is to make us suffer without resist- 
ance, worse than even our worst enemy could make 
us suffer — then, I say, I never will be fond of mortal 
man.” 

“ I tell you you are childish ; you know not what 
you are saying. When your time comes, you are not 
likely to be consulted whether you choose to fall in 
love or not.” After a pause, he added, “And that 
painter : did you think he could have been cruel ? ” 

“ He made those eyes I have seen my father make, 
when he begged my mother’s pardon and took her in 
his arms to make it up. I know those eyes. A man 
may make such eyes, and yet find it in his heart to 
beat a wife who never did a thing to vex him ! It 
made my flesh creep to see those eyes again.” 

After this she would not say another word. The 
curato also remained silent. He bethought himself of 
more than one wise saying, wherewith the maiden 
might have been admonished ; but he refrained, in 
consideration of the young boatman, who had been 
growing rather restless toward the close of this con- 
fession. 


THE FURY. 


193 


When, after two hours’ rowing, they reached the 
little bay of Capri, Antonio took the padre in his 
arms, and carried him through the last few ripples of 
shallow water, to set him reverently down upon his 
legs on dry land. But Laurella did not wait for him 
to wade back and fetch her. Gathering up her little 
petticoat, holding in one hand her wooden shoes and 
in the other her little bundle, with one splashing step 
or two she had reached the shore. “I have some 
time to stay at Capri,” said the priest. “ You need 
not wait — I may not perhaps return before to-morrow. 
When you get home, Laurella, remember me to your 
mother ; I will come and see her within the week. 
You mean to go back before it gets dark ? ” 

“ If I find an opportunity,” answered the girl, 
turning all her attention to her skirts. 

“ I must return, you know,” said Antonio, in a tone 
which he believed to be one of great indifference. “ I 
shall wait here till the Ave Maria. If you should not 
come, it is the same to me.” 

“ You must come,” interposed the little priest ; 
“ you never can leave your mother all alone at night. 
Is it far you have to go ? ” 

“ To a vineyard by Anacapri.” 

“ And I to Capri. So now God bless you, child — 
and you, my son.” 

Laurella kissed his hand, and let one farewell drop, 
for the padre and Antonio to divide between them. 
Antonio, however, appropriated no part of it to him- 
self ; he pulled off his cap exclusively to the padre, 
without even looking at Laurella. But after they had 
9 


194 


THE FURY. 


turned their backs, he let his eyes travel but a short 
way with the padre, as he went toiling over the deep 
bed of small loose stones ; he soon sent them after the 
maiden, who, turning to the right, had begun to climb 
the heights, holding one hand above her eyes to pro- 
tect them/from the scorching sun. Just before the 
path disappeared behind high walls, she stopt3ed, 
as if to gather breath, and looked behind her. At 
her feet lay the marina ; the rugged rocks rose high 
around her ; the sea was shining in the rarest of its 
deep-blue splendor. The scene was surely worth a 
moment’s pause. But, as chance would have it, her 
eyes, in glancing past Antonio’s boat, met Antonio’s 
own, which had been following her as she climbed. 

Each made a slight movement, as persons do who 
would excuse themselves for some mistake ; and then, 
with her darkest look, the maiden went her way. 

, y ^ i 


Hardly one hour had passed since noon, and yet 
for the last two Antonio had been sitting waiting on 
the bench before the fisher’s tavern. He must have 
been very much preoccupied with something, for he 
jumped up every moment to step out into the sun- 
shine, and look carefully up and down the roads, 
which, parting right and left, lead to the only two 
little towns upon the island. He did not altogether 
trust the weather, he then said to the hostess of the 
osteria ; to be sure, it was clear enough, but he did 
not quite like that tint of sea and sky. Just so it had 


THE FURY. 


195 


looked, he said, before the last awful storm, when the 
English family had been so nearly lost ; surely she 
must remember it ? 

No, indeed, she said, she didn’t. 

Well, if the weather should happen to change 
before night, she was to think of him, he said. 

“ Have you many fine folk over there ? ” she asked 
him, after a while. 

“ They are only just beginning ; as yet, the season 
has been bad enough ; those who came to bathe, came 
late.” 

“The spring came late. Have you not been earn- 
ing more than we at Capri ? ” 

44 Not enough to give me macaroni twice a week, 
if I had had nothing but the boat — only a letter now 
and then to take to Naples, or a gentleman to row out 
into the open sea, that he might fish. But you know 
J have an uncle who is rich ; he owns more than one 
hne orange-garden ; and, 4 Tonino,’ says he to me, 
4 while I live you shall not suffer want ; and when I 
am gone you will find that I have taken care of you.’ 
And so, with God’s help, I got through the winter.” 

44 Has he children, this uncle who is rich ? ” 

44 No, he never married ; he was long in foreign 
parts, and many a good piastre he has laid together. 
He is going to set up a great fishing business, and set 
me over it, to see the rights of it.” 

44 Why, then you are a made man, Tonino ! ” 

The young boatman shrugged his shoulders. 
44 Every man has his own burden,” said he, starting 
up again to have another look at the weather, turning 


196 


THE FURY. 


his eyes right and left, although he must have known 
that there can be no weather side but one. 

“ Let me fetch you another bottle,” said the host- 
ess ; “ your uncle can well alford to pay for it.” 

“Not more than one glass ; it is a fiery wine you 
have in Capri, and my head is hot already.” 

“ It does not heat the blood ; you may drink 
as much of it as you like. And here is my hus- 
band coming ; so you must sit a while, and talk to 
him.” 

-f And in fact, with his nets over his shoulder, and 
his red cap upon his curly head, down came the come- 
ly padrone of the osteria. He had been taking a dish 
of fish to that great lady, to set before the little curato. 
As soon as he caught sight of the young boatman, he 
began waving him a most cordial welcome ; and he 
came to sit beside him on the bench, chattering and 
asking questions. Just as his wife was bringing her 
second bottle of pure unadulterated Capri, they heard 
the crisp sand crunch, and Laurella was seen approach- 
ing from the left-hand road to Anacapri. She nodded 
slightly in salutation ; then stopped, and hesitated. 

Antonio sprang from his seat. “ I must go,” he 
said. “ It is a young Sorrento girl, who came over 
with the signor curato in the morning. She has to 
get back to her sick mother before night.” 

“Well, well, time enough yet before night,” ob- 
served the fisherman ; “ time enough to take a glass 
of wine. Wife, I say, another glass ! ” 

“ I thank you ; I had rather not ; ” and Laurella 
kept her distance. 


THE FURY. 197 

“ Fill the glasses, wife ; fill them both, I say ; she 
only wants a little pressing.” 

“ Don’t,” interposed the lad. “It is a willful head 
of her own she has ; a saint could not persuade her to 
do what she does not choose.” And, taking a hasty 
leave, he ran down tp^fhe boat, loosened the rope, and 
stood waiting for Laurella. Again she bent her head 
to the hostess, and slowly approached the water, with 
lingering steps. She looked around on every side, as 
if in hopes of seeing some other passenger. But the 
marina was deserted. The fishermen were asleep, or 
rowing about the coast with rods or nets ; a few 
women and children sat before their doors, spinning 
or sleeping ; such strangers as had come over in the 
morning were waiting for the cool of the evening to 
return. She had not time to look about her long ; 
before she could prevent him, Antonio had seized her 
in his arms and carried her to the boat, as if she had 
been an infant. He leaped in after her, and with a 
stroke or two of his oar they were in deep water. 

She had seated herself at the end of the boat, half 
turning her back to him, so that he could only see her 
profile. She wore a sterner look than ever ; the low, 
straight brow was shaded by her hair ; the rounded 
lips were firmly closed ; only the delicate nostril occa- 
sionally gave a willful quiver. After they had gone 
on a while in silence, she began to feel the scorching of 
the sun ; and, unloosening her bundle, she threw the 
handkerchief over her head, and began to make her 
dinner of the bread ; for in Capri she had eaten nothing. 

Antonio did not stand this long ; he fetched out 


198 


THE FURY. 


a couple of the oranges with which the baskets had 
been filled in the morning. “Here is something to 
eat to your bread, Laurella,” he said. “ Don’t think 
I kept them for you ; they had rolled out of the bas- 
ket, and I only found them when I brought the bas- 
kets back to the boat.” 

“ Eat them yourself ; bread is enough for me.” 

“ They are refreshing in this heat, and you have 
had to walk so far.” 

“ They gave me a drink of water, and that re- 
freshed me.” 

“ As you please,” he said, and let them drop into 
the basket. 

Silence again. The sea was smooth as glass. Not 
a ripple was heard against the prow. Even the white 
sea-birds that roost among the caves of Capri pursued 
their prey with soundless flight. 

“You might take the oranges to your mother,” 
again commenced Tonino. 

“We have oranges at home ; and when they are 
gone, I can go and buy some more.” 

“ Nay, take these to her, and give them to her with 
my compliments.” 

“ She does not know you.” 

“ You could tell her who I am.” 

“ I do not know you either.” 

It was not the first time that she had denied him 
thus. One Sunday of last year, when that painter 
had first come to Sorrento, Antonio had chanced to be 
playing boccia with some other young fellows in the 
little piazza by the chief street. 


THE FURY. 


199 


There, for the first time, had the painter caught 
sight of Laurella, who, with her pitcher on her head, 
had passed by without taking any notice of him. The 
Neapolitan, struck by her appearance, stood still and 
gazed after her, not heeding that he was standing in 
the very midst of the game, which, with two steps, 
he might have cleared. A very ungentle ball came 
knocking against his shins, as a reminder that this 
was not the spot to choose for meditation. He looked 
round, as if in expectation of some excuse. But the 
young boatman who had thrown the ball stood silent 
among his friends, in such an attitude of defiance that 
the stranger had found it more advisable to go his 
ways and avoid discussion. Still, this little encounter 
had been spoken of, particularly at the time when the 
painter had been pressing his suit to Laurella. “ I do 
not even know him,” she said indignantly, when the 
painter asked her whether it was for the sake of that 
uncourteous lad she now refused him. But she had 
heard that piece of gossip, and known Antonio well 
enough when she had met him since. 

And now they sat together in this boat, like two 
most deadly enemies, while their hearts were beating 
fit to kill them. Antonio’s usually so good-humored 
face was heated to scarlet ; he struck the oars so sharp- 
ly that the foam flew over to where Laurella sat, while 
his lips moved as if muttering angry words. She pre- 
tended not to notice, wearing her most unconscious 
look, bending over the edge of the boat, and letting 
the cool water pass between her fingers. Then she 
threw off her handkerchief again, and began to smooth 


200 


THE FURY. 


her hair, as though she had been alone. Only her eye- 
brows twitched, and she held up her wet hands in vain 
attempts to cool her burning cheeks. 

Now they were well out in the open sea. The 
island was far behind, and the coast before them lay 
yet distant in the hot haze. Not a sail was within 
sight, far or near — not even a passing gull to break 
the stillness. Antonio looked all round, evidently 
ripening some hasty resolution. The color faded sud- 
denly from his cheek, and he dropped his oars. Lau- 
rella looked round involuntarily — fearless, yet atten- 
tive. 

“ I must make an end of this,” the young fellow 
burst forth. “ It has lasted too long already ! I only 
wonder that it has not killed me ! You say you do 
not know me ? And all this time you must have seen 
me pass you like a madman, my whole heart full of 
what I had to tell you ; and then you only made your 
crossest mouth, and turned your back upon me.” 

“What had I to say to you ? ” she curtly replied. 
“ I may have seen that you were inclined to meddle 
w r ith me, but I do not choose to be on people’s wicked 
tongues for nothing. I do not mean to have you for 
a husband — neither you nor any other.” 

“ Nor any other ? So you will not always say ! 
You say so now, because you w^ould not have that 
painter. Bah ! you were but a child ! You will feel 
lonely enough yet, some day ; and then, wild as you 
are, you will take the next best who comes to 
hand.” 

“ Who knows ? which of us can see the future ? 


THE FURY. 


201 


It may be that I will change my mind. What is that 
to you ? ” 

“ What is it to me ? ” he flew out, starting to his 
feet, while the small boat leaped and danced ; “ what 
is it to me, you say ? You know well enough ! I tell 
you, that man shall perish miserably to whom you 
shall prove kinder than you have been to me ! ” 

“ And to you, what did I ever promise ? Am I 
to blame if you be mad ? What right have you to 
me ? ” 

“ Ah ! I know,” he cried, “ my right is written no- 
where. It has not been put in Latin by any lawyer, 
nor stamped with any seal. But this I feel : I have 
just the right to you that I have to heaven, if I die 
an honest Christian. Do you think I could look on 
and see you go to church with another man, and see 
the girls go by and shrug their shoulders at me ? ” 

“ You can do as you please. I am not going to 
let myself be frightened by all those threats. I also 
mean to do as I please.” 

“ You shall not say so long ! ” and his whole frame 
shook with passion. “ I am not the man to let my 
w T hole life be spoiled by a stubborn wench like you ! 
You are in my power here, remember, and may be 
made to do my bidding.” 

She could not repress a start, but her eyes flashed 
bravely on him. 

“ You may kill me if you dare,” she said, slowly. 

“ I do nothing by halves,” he said, and his voice 
sounded choked and hoarse. “ There is room for us 
both in the sea. I cannot help thee, child ” — he spoke 


202 


TIIE FURY ; 


\ 


the last words dreamily, almost pitifully — “but we 
must both go down together — both at once — and 
now ! ” he shouted, and snatched her in his arms. 
But at the same moment he drew back his right hand; 
the blood gushed out ; she had bitten him fiercely. 

“ Ha ! can I be made to do your bidding ? ” she 
cried, and thrust him from her, with one sudden move- 
ment ; “ am I here in your power ? ” and she leaped 
into the sea, and sank. 

She rose again directly ; her scanty skirts clung 
close ; her long hair, loosened by the waves, hung 
heavy about her neck. She struck out valiantly, and, 
without uttering a sound, she began to swim steadily 
from the boat toward the shore. 

With senses benumbed by sudden terror, he stood, 
with outstretched neck, looking after her, his eyes 
fixed as though they had just been witness to a mira- 
cle. Then, giving himself a shake, he seized his oars, 
and began rowing after her with all the strength he 
had, while all the time the bottom of the boat was 
reddening fast with the blood that kept streaming 
from his hand. 

Rapidly as she swam, he was at her side in a mo- 
ment. “For the love of our most Holy Virgin,” he 
cried, “ get into the boat ! I have been a madman ! 
God alone can tell what so suddenly darkened my 
brain. It came upon me like a flash of lightning, and 
set me all on fire. I knew not what I did or said. I 
do not even ask you to forgive me, Laurella, only to 
come into the boat again, and not to risk your life ! ” 

She swam on a3 though she had not heard him. 


THE FURY . 


203 


“ You can never swim to land. I tell you, it is 
two miles off. Think of your mother ! If you should 
come to grief, I should die of horror.” 
i She measured the distance with her eye, and then, 
without answering him one word, she swam up to the 
boat, and laid her hands upon the edge ; he rose to 
help her in. As the boat tilted over to one side with 
the girl’s weight, his jacket that was lying on the 
bench slipped into the water. Agile as she was, she 
swung herself on board without assistance, and gained 
her former seat. As soon as he saw that she was 
safe, he took to his oars again, while she began quiet- 
ly wringing out her dripping clothes, and shaking the 
water from her hair. As her eyes fell upon the bot- 
tom of the boat, and saw the blood, she gave a quick 
look at the hand, which held the oar as if it had been 
unhurt. 

“ Take this,” she said, and held out her handker- 
chief. He shook his head, and went on rowing. After 
a time she rose, and, stepping up to him, bound the 
handkerchief firmly round the wound, which was very 
deep. Then, heedless of his endeavors to prevent 
her, she took an oar, and, seating herself opposite him, 
began to row with steady strokes, keeping her eyes 
from looking toward him — fixed upon the oar that 
was scarlet with his blood. Both were pale and silent. 
As they drew near land, such fishermen as they met 
began shouting after Antonio and gibing at Laurella ; 
but neither of them moved an eyelid, or spoke one 
word. 

The sun stood yet high over Procida when they 


204 


THE FURY. 


landed at the marina. Laurella shook out her petti- 
coat, now nearly dry, and jumped on shore. The old 
spinning woman, who in the morning had seen them 
start, was still upon her terrace. She called down, 
“What is that upon your hand, Tonino ? Jesus 
Christ ! the boat is full of blood ! ” 

“ It is nothing, comare,” the young fellow re- 
plied. “ I tore my hand against a nail that was stick- 
ing out too far ; it will he well to-morrow. It is only 
this confounded ready blood of mine, that always 
makes a thing look worse than it is.” 

“ Let me come and bind it up, comparello. Stop 
one moment ; I will go and fetch the herbs, and come 
to yea directly.” 

“ Never trouble yourself, comare. It has been 
dressed already ; to-morrow morning it will be all 
over and forgotten. I have a healthy skin, that heals 
directly.” 

“ Addio ! ” said Laurella, turning to the path that 
goes winding up the cliffs. “ Good-night ! ” he an- 
swered, without looking at her ; and then taking his 
oars and baskets from the boat, and climbing up the 
small stone stairs, he went into his own hut. 



He was alone in his two little rooms, and began 
to pace them up and down. Cooler than upon the 
dead calm sea, the breeze blew fresh through the small 
unglazed windows, which could only be closed with 
wooden shutters. The solitude was soothing to him. 
He stooped before the little image of the Virgin, de- 
voutly gazing upon the glory round the head (made 


THE FURY. 


205 


of stars cut out in silver paper). But he did not want 
to pray. What reason had he to pray, now that he 
had lost all he had ever hoped for ? 

And this day appeared to last forever. He did so 
long for night ! for he was weary, and more exhaust- 
ed by the loss of blood than he would have cared to 
own. His hand was very sore. Seating himself upon 
a little stool, he untied the handkerchief that bound 
it ; the blood, so long repressed, gushed out again ; all 
round the wound the hand was swollen high. 

He washed it carefully, cooling it in the water ; 
then he clearly saw the marks of Laurella’s teeth. 

“ She was right,” he said ; “ I was a brute, and de- 
served no better. I will send her back the handker- 
chief by Giuseppe to-morrow. Never shall she set 
eyes on me again.” And he washed the handkerchief 
with the greatest care, and spread it out in the sun to 
dry. 

And having bound up his hand again, as well as 
he could manage with his teeth and his left hand, he 
threw himself upon his bed, and closed his eyes. 

He was soon waked up from a sort of slumber by 
the rays of the bright moonlight, and also by the pain 
of his hand ; he had just risen for more cold water 
to soothe its throbbings, when he heard the sound 
of some one at the door. Laurella stood before 
him. 

She came in without a question, took off the hand- 
kerchief she had tied over her head, and placed her 
little basket upon the table ; then she drew a deep 
breath. 


206 


THE FURY. 


’“You are come to fetch your handkerchief,” he 
sad. “You need not have taken that trouble. In 
the morning I would have asked Giuseppe to take it 
to you.” 

“ It is not the handkerchief,” she said quickly. 
“ I have been up among the hills to gather herbs to 
stop the blood ; see here.” And she lifted the lid of 
her little basket. 

“ Too much trouble,” he said, not in bitterness — 
“ far too much trouble. I am better, much better ; 
but if I were worse, it would be no more than I de- 
serve. Why did you come at such a time ? If any 
oa« should see you ? You know how they talk, even 
when they don’t know what they are saying.” 

“ I care for no one’s talk,” she said, passionately. 
“ I came to see your hand, and put the herbs upon it ; 
you cannot do it with your left.” 

“ It is not worth while, I tell you.” 

“ Let me see it then, if I am to believe you.” 

She took his hand, that was not able to prevent 
her, and unbound the linen. When she saw the swell- 
ing, she shuddered, and gave a cry : “Jesus Maria ! ” 

“ It is a little swollen,” he said ; “ it will be over 
in four-and-twenty hours.” 

She shook her head. “ It will certainly be a week 
’ before you can go to sea.” 

“ More likely a day or two ; and if not, what mat- 


ters ? ” 

She had fetched a basin, and began carefully wash- 
ing out the wound, which he suffered passively, like 
a child. She then laid on the healing leaves, which at 


THE FURY. 


207 


once relieved the burning pain, and finally bound it ’ 
with the linen she had brought with her. 

When it was done : “ I thank you,” he said. “ And 
now, if you would do me one more kindness, forgive 
the madness that came over me ; forget all I said and 
did. I cannot tell how it came to pass ; certainly it 
was not your fault — not yours. And never shall you 
hear from me again one word to vex you.” 

She interrupted him. “ It is I who have to beg 
your pardon. I should have spoken differently. I 
might have explained it better, and not enraged you 
with my sullen ways. And now that bite — ” 

“ It was in self-defense ; it was high time to brin & 
me to my senses. As I said before, it is nothing at 
all to signify. Do not talk of being forgiven ; you 
only did me good, and I thank you for it. And now, 
here is your handkerchief ; take it with you.” 

He held it to her, but yet she lingered, hesitated, 
and appeared to have some inward struggle. At length 
she said, “ You have lost your jacket, and by my 
fault ; and I know that all the money for the oranges 
was in it. I did not think of this till afterward. I 
cannot replace it now ; we have not so much at home 
— or if we had, it would be mother’s. But this I have 
— this silver cross. That painter left it on the table 
the day he came for the last time. I have never looked 
at it all this while, and do not care to keep it in my 
box ; if you were to sell it ? It must be worth a few 
piastres, mother says. It might make up the money 
you have lost ; and if not quite, I could earn the rest 
by spinning at night when mother is asleep.” 


208 


THE FURY. 


“Nothing will make me take it,” he said shortly, 
pushing away the bright new cross, which she had 
taken from her pocket. 

“You must,” she said; “how can you tell how 
long your hand may keep you from your work ? There 
it lies ; and nothing can make me so much as look at 
it again.” 

“ Drop it in the sea, then.” 

“ It is no present I want to make you ; it is no more 
than is your due ; it is only fair.” 

“ Nothing from you can be due to me ; and here- 
after when we chance to meet, if you would do me a 
kindness, I beg you not to look my way. It would 
make me feel you were thinking of what I have done. 
And now good-night ; and let this be the last word 
said.” 

She laid the handkerchief in the basket, and also 
the cross, and closed the lid. But when he looked 
into her face, he started. Great heavy drops were 
rolling down her cheeks ; she let them flow unheeded. 

“ Maria Santissima ! ” he cried. “ Are you ill ? 
You are trembling from head to foot ! ” 

“ It is nothing,” she said ; “ I must go home ; ” 
and with unsteady steps she was moving to the door, 
when suddenly she leaned her brow against the wall, 
and gave way to a fit of bitter sobbing. Before he 
could go to her she turned upon him suddenly, and 
fell upon his neck. 

“ I cannot bear it ! ” she cried, clinging to him as 
a dying thing to life — “ I cannot bear it ! I cannot let 
you speak so kindly, and bid me go, with all this on 


THE FURY. 


200 


my conscience. Beat me ! trample on me ! curse me ! 
Or if it can be that you love me still, after all I have 
done to you, take me and keep me, and do with me as 
you please ; only do not send me away so ! ” She 
could say no more for sobbing. 

Speechless, he held her a while in his arms. “ If I 
can love you still ! ” he cried at last. “ Holy Mother 
of God ! Do you think that all my best heart’s blood 
has gone from me through that little wound ? Don’t 
you hear it hammering now, as though it would burst 
my breast and go to you ? But if you say this to try 
me, or because you pity me, I can forget it. You 
are not to think you owe me this, because you know 
what I have suffered for you.” 

“ No ! ” she said very resolutely, looking up from 
his shoulder into his face, with her tearful eyes ; “ it 
is because I love you ; and let me tell you, it was be- 
cause I always feared to love you that I was so cross. 
I will be so different now. I never could bear again 
to pass you in the street without one look ! And lest 
you should ever feel a doubt, I will kiss you, that you 
may say, ‘ She kissed me ; ’ and Laurella kisses no man 
but her husband.” 

She kissed him thrice, and, escaping from his arms : 
“ And now good-night, amor mio, cara vita mia ! ” she 
said. “ Lie down to sleep, and let your hand get well. 
Do not come with me ; I am afraid of no man, save of 
you alone.” * 

And so she slipped out, and soon disappeared in 
the shadow of the wall. 

He remained standing by the window, gazing far 


210 


THE FURY, 


out over the calm sea, while all the stars in heaven ap- 
peared to flit before his eyes. 

The next time the little curato sat in his confes- 
sional, he sat smiling to himself. Laurella had just 
risen from her knees after a very long confession. 

“ Who would have thought it ? ” he said musingly 
— “ that the Lord would so soon have taken pity upon 
that wayward little heart ? And I had been reproach- 
ing myself for not having adjured more sternly that 
ill demon of perversity. Our eyes are but short-sight- 
ed to see the ways of Heaven ! Well, may God bless 
her, I say, and let me live to go to sea with Laurella’s 
eldest born, rowing me in his father’s place ! Ah ! 
well, indeed ! l’Arrabiata ! ” 


JUDITH STERN. 


Several years ago, on the journey from Dresden 
to Leipsic, I renewed an acquaintance that had been 
first begun in the shadow of the leaning tower of 
Pisa, and had ended in Florence at the foot of Giot- 
to’s Campanile. 

The man, somewhere in the fifties, whom I had at 
first taken for an Englishman from his dress and a 
certain British accent in his conversation, had soon 
proclaimed himself a true native German, who had 
emigrated in his youth to London, where he had estab- 
lished an extensive business in jewels, precious stones, 
and antique gold ornaments. It was his custom to 
visit Italy every three or four years, for the purpose 
of making purchases. That he was happily married, 
had a houseful of children, and found it harder with 
each succeeding year to tear himself away from his 
comfortable hearth — all this I learned during the first 
hour we spent together, as we took our dinner in the 
same trattoria ; for, however much he had become an 
Englishman in his outward appearance, he had by no 
means acquired anything of the stiff exclusiveness of 


212 


JUDITH STERN. 


his new countrymen. On the other hand, it seemed 
to please him heartily to meet with some one who 
thought that homesickness for wife and children was 
a very natural feeling. 

His wife, he told me, was a German lady; his chil- 
dren were all educated in the German fashion. He 
himself showed an unusual degree of culture, for he 
constantly read German publications that he might 
keep himself thoroughly au courant with every intel- 
lectual movement in the Fatherland. To my question 
why he had settled for life in a foreign country when 
he had so strong a love of home, he answered briefly 
that, in his younger days, he had no choice in the 
matter, and that afterward it had been too late. 

His clear, open countenance — he was still a re- 
markably handsome man, without a single sign of age — 
darkened for a moment ; the shadow of a sad remem- 
brance passed across it. But in an instant he was 
bright again, and so remained during the four days 
that we continued in company. He had hunted 
through every corner of Italy, and was well acquaint- 
ed with Spain and Greece and a good part of France ; 
and the delicacy and originality of his judgment in 
matters of art would have put to shame many of our 
art-professors, who have but walked through a muse- 
um or two. 

As we separated on a beautiful summer night in 
the cathedral-square at Florence, we promised that 
each should hear from the other. But, as might have 
been foreseen, this was not carried out; and my pleas- 
ure was therefore all the greater when, ten years later, 


JUDITH STERN. 


213 


I saw the well-known face appear again in the turmoil 
of the Dresden station. 

He was entirely unchanged — his light hair a little 
thinner, but still without a streak of gray ; and his 
hearty, communicative manner, too, remained the 
same. 

“You will find me somewhat more silent and 
monosyllabic than at our first meeting,” he said. 
“ But when you reflect that, for the first time in fifty 
years, I have come back to this neighborhood, where 
I am truly at home, you can easily imagine that 
thoughts of every kind pass through my brain. I 
will keep them to myself, of course ; my ( Sentimental 
Journey’ shall not bore you. Let us rather talk of 
art — but not about the two Holbein Madonnas about 
which there is just now such a heated controversy. I 
confess to you that, in spite of the English climate, I 
am not fond of fighting in a fog, and before the mat- 
ter-of-fact part of the question comes more clearly 
into the daylight — I mean before the Darmstadt Ma- 
donna is rid of all more recent contributions — I don’t 
care to plead either for or against her.” 

I had just as little wish to do so ; and so we were 
soon far away from German art-affairs, and deep in 
southern reminiscences. 

I remarked, however, that in the midst of the live- 
liest conversation my excellent friend now and then 
grew silent ; examined the neighborhood through 
which we sped along; or became absorbed in thought. 
At last, as we reached Grimma, he rose from his seat, 
and reached for his hand-luggage. 


214 


JUDITH STERN. 


“ I am going to stay here overnight,” said he. “ I 
was born here ; and I should like to see if the old 
Fiirstenschule, where I learned my bit of Latin, is still 
standing on the old spot. Shall we see each other in 
Leipsic? We have a great deal more to say to one 
another.” 

“ You would rather be alone this evening,” I re- 
plied ; “ otherwise, I would be as pleased to keep you 
company in Grimma as in Pisa.” 

“ Are you in earnest ? ” he asked, quickly. “ Then 
I’ll keep you to your word. I confess that I look for- 
ward with a certain superstitious dread to spending 
the night here ; and I should be really grateful to you 
if you would remain with me. But, after all,” he 
added, after a little pause, “ I shall not be able to pass 
the next few hours with you. But we shall find our- 
selves all the more comfortable together in the even- 
ing, when I have made my rounds, and have every- 
thing behind me that lies beyond them.” 

And so the plan was carried out. 

The (t Crown-Prince ” in Grimma, though it is the 
most respectable hotel in the town, is still an inn of 
the good old type, where it seems to the traveler as 
though he were enjoying the hospitality of worthy, 
philanthropic people, who gave up their own rooms to 
give the stranger a good resting-place in them. The 
stately bearing of my companion, although he did not 
at once declare himself a former townsman of the old 
landlady, secured us such favor that the best bedroom 
was unlocked for us — a positive hall, with five win-, 
dows, furnished with furniture that fifty years before 


JUDITH STERN. 


215 


had been the newest and most expensive that could 
have been gotten together for a bridal outfit. Even 
the “ service ” was not wanting, with its gilded cups, 
silver sugar-bowl and sugar-tongs ; the bouquet of 
hair-flowers ; the spun-glass dog, and various little 
artistic trifles ; and the walls were richly decorated 
with old engravings. Two comfortable, old-fashioned 
beds stood in opposite corners ; the cleanliness of their 
curtains and their linen was also a relic of the good 
old times. 

“ You do not mind if we are room-mates ? ” said 
my companion. “ I promise not to disturb you, even 
though I may lie a long time awake. There is a kind 
of ghostly atmosphere in this room. I was present in 
it at the silver- wedding of my parents. The guests 
of those days, as Hamlet says, are all 4 at supper ’ — 
except myself, yet I was not the youngest. But I 
will not weary you with my reminiscences of long, 
long ago. Good-by ; we will meet again at supper.” 

He left me, and I soon followed him, to while away 
the time till dark by a saunter through the little town. 
It was in April ; a harsh, snowy air streamed through 
the clean streets ; and beyond, on the banks of the 
Mulde, that must have been very pretty in the sum- 
mer, but now were in their time of early, frosty bud- 
ding, it was as comfortless as up above upon the Gat- 
tersburg, where I was glad to enjoy the prospect from 
behind safe window-panes. I almost repented having 
followed my English friend hither — who, perhaps, 
had only accepted my companionship out of courtesy, 
after all. A feeling of dreariness and objectlessness, 


216 


JUDITH STERN. 


such as easily attacks one upon a journey — an utterly 
fruitless melancholy and low-spirited wretchedness — 
overcame me more and more. I was glad when the 
day came to an end ; and with supper, a purpose that 
was at least tangible approached. 

On the way back to the inn, I went past the church- 
yard ; hut I had refrained from going in, for I saw 
my companion wandering about it. I was fully pre- 
pared to see him come hack from this reflective excur- 
sion in a saddened mood ; and I was therefore all the 
more surprised at the lively manner with which he 
greeted me on entering the dining-hall. It seemed as 
though, in truth, all “ lay behind him ” now. 

The phrase “ dining-Aa^ ” only slipped from my 
pen by accident, because it is the custom to call by 
this name the room in a hotel that is used for the 
serving of meals. But, in truth, the “ Crown-Prince ” 
possesses but one room of more than the ordinary 
dimensions of a bedchamber — our five - windowed 
“ sleeping-hall ; ” the two rooms on the ground-floor, 
next to the kitchen, fulfill the purpose of nourishing 
hungry wanderers— and none the worse because they 
are at the same time the sitting-rooms of the family, 
who withdraw themselves modestly into a corner as 
soon as the two guest-tables are filled. Only the sew- 
ing-table, on a raised platform at one of the windows, 
grandfather’s chair at the other, and the little anti- 
quated writing-desk, remind one of the other labors 
that are performed within these cozy walls. The bright 
face of the landlord’s young daughter must not be for- 
gotten, who herself assists the waitress even in the 


JUDITH STERN. 


217 


serving of the guests, while the old landlady watches 
everything from the farthest corner, and takes care 
that the honor of the house does not suffer. 

On this particular day it was unusually empty and 
still in these lower rooms. Only a commercial trav- 
eler for a wine-establishment, a few old habitues of the 
house, and a female cousin of the daughter, sat scat- 
tered through the two rooms ; and hardly a whisper 
was audible from the women in the corner by the 
stove. The sharp weather of the departing winter 
had kept away all the spring-time guests that general- 
ly flock hither from Leipsic. And, in any event, 
Grimma is hardly a goal for tourists. We two, my 
London friend and I, excited some little curiosity 
among the feminine portion of the company, as they 
were unwilling to take us for merchants, and racked 
their brains in vain concerning the object of our visit. 

We had talked in an undertone and of indifferent 
subjects while we ate our very creditable meal, and 
drank with it the customary vin du pays. Then my 
companion ordered two glasses of punch, stood up, 
and, approaching the landlady, asked, with a vanning, 
gentlemanlike politeness that was all his own, if he 
might venture to ask permission to drink the punch at 
her table and in her company, as he was an old ac- 
quaintance, though one that she might indeed no 
longer remember. 

These words had a truly magical effect upon the 
spirits of the good women, who were at once enlight- 
ened with regard to the object of our journey, and 
furnished with exhaustless material for conversation. 

10 


218 


JUDITH STERN. 


I played the silent listener during all these personal 
questions and answers, until I noticed that the old 
family stories were not much more interesting to the 
young daughter than to me ; on discovering which, 
we at once engaged in a lively literary chat. The 
little maiden had let her needle rest for many an hour 
over some new hook at the small sewing-table in the 
corner, and had thought more, meanwhile, than many 
a reader in the great city. 

In the intervals of our chat we listened to the talk 
of the others ; and, as my friend remarked that he 
had been at the churchyard, and had found his parents’ 
grave well cared for, according to his instructions, but 
had failed to discover again many of the most remark- 
able monuments, the daughter declared that she her- 
self regretted much that had been ruined or taken 
away during the clearing-up of the place — and espe- 
cially an old gravestone that she had always been used 
to look at as often as she visited the cemetery. She 
graphically described the figures upon it. It repre- 
sented the solemnly grotesque scene of an angel and 
a devil fighting, at the deathbed of a woman, for the 
possession of her unfortunate soul, which was flying 
out of the mouth of the dying creature as she drew 
her last breath. The angel had seized upon the right 
arm, the devil on the left ; but it could easily be seen 
that mercy would win the victory. And now the 
monument, sadly weather-beaten, it is true, had been 
built into a dark wall in the interior of the church, 
where it could hardly be recognized. 

“ But you don’t still believe in devils and angels, 


JUDITH STERN. 


219 


Fraulein ? ” interrupted the wine-merchant, suddenly, 
in the midst of the conversation. He had lighted 
a cigar, and blew the smoke into the air in artistic 
rings with a meditative smile, as he swayed his slim 
figure jauntily in the open door between the two 
rooms. 

The girl, frightened from her innocent prattle, did 
not immediately find an answer to this question of 
conscience. But I, deeper initiated into this subject 
by association with my late friend Julius Braun (who 
had in mind the writing of a book on the “ Natural 
History of the Devil ”), and moreover inclined to take 
the part of the weaker, could not withstand the temp- 
tation to take up the part of advocatus diaboli against 
this audacious devil-denier. I declared that modern 
investigations had made it again extremely probable 
that there were celestial and infernal classes of society 
which had heretofore kept aloof from all statistics 
and censuses. A man of science, Privy-Councilor 
Ringseis, of Munich, had written a valuable and very 
noteworthy book upon the diseases of angels. As far 
as the devil was concerned, he was of too tough a con- 
stitution ever to be a subject of interest to the medi- 
cal faculty. So much the more, however, did he 
present problems to the other sciences, to say nothing 
of theology, which, as is well known, drives him out 
of every individual Christian at baptism, and has a live- 
ly interest, on this account, in never being entirely rid 
of him. Indeed, if there were none, theology would 
invent one from interested motives, the explanation of 
which did not belong to this part of the subject. But 


220 


JUDITH STERN. 


there was no clanger. The wisdom of all peoples, 
from the most ancient times — 

And here followed such a mass of citations from 
the unwritten work of my mythologic friend, that the 
laughter of the frivolous materialist on the threshold 
ceased, and the others listened to me with eyes as big 
as if I were telling the finest ghost-stories. 

Only the young girl appeared doubtful whether I 
was in real earnest with my learning. And, as I 
finally came to an end with my defense of that much- 
abused being, she turned to my older companion, who 
had not uttered a word during the whole debate on 
the devil-question. 

“ Do you believe in it, too ? ” she said, confidingly. 

She seemed to have confidence that he would 
not permit himself to jest with her in so serious a 
matter. 

He answered perfectly quietly, so that I myself 
• could not tell at once whether the jester lurked 
behind : 

“ I, my dear Fraulein ? I never doubt what I have 
seen with my own eyes.” 

“ And you have truly — seen something ? ” 

“ More than I liked to ; indeed, at the same time a 
devil and an angel side by side, as much alive as I see 
you before me now.” 

The good girl shuddered involuntarily. 

“ You are not making sport of me?” she said, and 
a light blush spread over her pretty face. “ You have 
seen, when you were fully sensible and quite awake, 
an angel — ” 


JUDITH STERN. 


221 


“ And a devil ; certainly — as satanic as one can 
picture him.” 

“ Oh, tell us about it ! ” said the young cousin ; 
while at the same time she drew nearer to her friend, 
and put her arm about her waist. 

“ My curiosity is aroused, I confess,” exclaimed the 
wine-merchant, now entering the room. 

“Well, well, what things one goes through ! ” said 
the landlady, turning up the lamp a little. 

But my friend still remained serious. 

“ The affair is only too true,” he added. “ But, 
for that very reason, it is impossible for me to tell it 
to you. Besides, it is late : we must be off with the 
first train in the morning. Be kind enough, my good 
landlady, to have me waked at half-past five. Good- 
night, ladies.” 

With these words he rose and looked about him 
for his candle. The wine-merchant gave a short laugh, 
as if to say, “ It’s easy enough to get out of the mat- 
ter in that way.” He then took his leave with an ele- 
gant bow to the young ladies, and the remark that, 
even if he did not generally believe in angels, “ pres- 
ent company was always excepted.” 

With this he went away, shrugging his shoulders, 
without considering either of us superstitious indi- 
viduals worthy of a salutation, and ascended to his 
chamber, whistling an air from “ Robert le Diable.” 

We followed him at once. But, when we had 
gone up-stairs, we discovered, to our disgust, that we 
were not to be rid of his society so quickly. He was 
lodged in the room next to ours, that was only sepa- 


222 


JUDITH STERN. 


rated from our small hall by a thin board-partition. 
Thus we not only heard his entire operatic r'epertoire , 
which he indefatigably continued to whistle, from Mo- 
zart to Offenbach, but also, in the intervals, his con- 
versations with the chambermaid, for whom he rang 
every few moments, for the purpose of declaring to 
her that she would be an angel — 

The remainder rather in the style of Offenbach 
than Mozart. 

My companion, after enduring this for a while, 
seized his hat. 

“ It is true, it isn’t the best temperature for an 
evening- walk. But I am going out for a square or 
two until the air gets pure. Will you go ?” 

I was glad to do so. When we had walked a hun- 
dred yards or so in the deathlike silence of the streets, 
my companion said : 

“ It’s no use, I cannot rid myself of these reminis- 
cences. And after all that we know of one another, 
it would seem to me almost wrong if I concealed from 
you, too, the story that passed through my brain dur- 
ing your theological discussion. The only ones to 
whom I owed it not to break my silence are dead now ; 
and, as far as regards the incarnation of the evil one 
which played a part in it, I have no anxiety on that 
score. If it is still haunting the world anywhere be- 
tween heaven and earth, it will deem it an honor that 
its memory has not yet died away. 

“Don’t prepare yourself, however, for any un- 
heard-of occurrence — for any mystery or miracle. If 
heaven and hell had to do with it — 


JUDITH STERN. 


223 


“ But I will spare you all prelude. 

“ Do you notice, there, in that narrow street, the 
house with the steep gable ? It is only at night that 
it looks as it used, on account of that high triangle 
that it still turns to the street, as of old. For the 
rest, a smooth fa§ade has been plastered upon it, and 
no one imagines how poverty-stricken the little house 
looked out of its narrow patched window-panes six 
decades ago, when my inconsiderable person first sa- 
luted its walls with cries. 

“ I was the sixth child of my father, who could 
hardly be said to be in brilliant circumstances, being 
the drawing-teacher at the Fiirstenschule here. My 
sisters, five merry girls, early had places found for 
them — honorable and necessary ones — but I remained 
with my parents until my eighteenth year, partly be- 
cause I could have my schooling for nothing (as the 
son of a teacher), and partly because my good father 
nourished a truly blind love for me, and founded the 
greatest hopes upon my talent for drawing. But, by 
the time I had passed through the first form, sanza 
ivfamia e sanza lodo (for my few artistic talents 
really stood in the way of severer studies), the good 
old man’s own energies and strength, to his great sor- 
row, were so far gone that he had to give up his regu- 
lar position, and content himself with the scanty pen- 
sion due him ; nor could he even think of continuing 
his private lessons. And so his fine castle in the air 
— the plan that I should attend the Dresden Academy, 
and there become a famous painter — fell to pieces at 


once. 


224 


JUDITH STERN. 


“ What was to be done with me ? I showed little 
inclination for study, even if it had been less expen- 
sive ; still less for a trade. And so it seemed like a 
special piece of good luck that a Leipsic jeweler, whose 
name was then exceedingly well known, advertised in 
the papers for a young man who had some knowledge 
of drawing, and would enter into an apprenticeship 
with him. 

“So I came into the great city, a young lad of 
eighteen, innocent in body and soul, a very mother’s 
boy, but with my whole soul full of thirst for life, 
and of yearning for everything beautiful and glori- 
ous ; and in the city I passed at once into the very 
house that offered more food for these youthful 
longings than any other in the Leipsic of those 
days. 

“ My employer and master was a Hebrew, David 
Stern by name — one of the most remarkable men that 
I have ever met. He had raised himself from small 
beginnings, as a dealer in jewels and antique works of 
art, till he was one of the first art-connoisseurs of the 
time ; and he had brought his jewelry establishment 
into such a condition of prosperity that his name was 
known in England, France, and Italy, and his business 
connections extended even to America. He had spent 
some years in Home in order to perfect himself in his 
art there at the classic source of taste. When he re- 
turned, he at once established, wfith a few assistants 
whom he had brought with him, a manufactory in 
which only the finest and best wares were made. He 
carried on at the same time the sale of pictures ; but 


JUDITH STERN. 


225 


his chief attachment was for gems and cameos ; and 
the rarest things that he possessed so hound themselves 
to his heart that he would resist even the most tempt- 
ing opportunities to make an advantageous bargain 
with them, and increase his riches in some other way, 
rather than by the breaking-up of his collection. 

“ There was, in all respects, a generous vein in 
him far above the ordinary love of gain ; and, with 
his love for art, his soul still had room for the treas- 
ures of wisdom, wdrich he found, most of all, stored 
up in the traditions of his people — without his being, 
as one might say, a bigoted Jew. He did not talk 
much of it, but in his leisure hours he read everything 
important which the philosophy of that time pro- 
duced ; and among the clever people whom he often 
entertained at his table, he at least kept (in my eyes) 
the right of the argument, even if he did not always 
have the last word. 

“ He was decidedly not handsome, or even of that 
patriarchal dignity in appearance that one so often 
finds among his nation ; a by no means conspicuous 
figure of middle height ; the hair already growing 
gray ; the features of his face simple and almost ordi- 
nary until one came to a pair of singularly wise brown 
eyes, and a mouth that constantly seemed to speak, 
and of which one could not fancy that it could ever 
allow a harsh, rough, or senseless word to pass across 
its lips. But when he laughed, or told one of his 
countless droll or wise Jewish stories, no one could 
resist him ; and even beautiful women admitted that 
David Stern was by no means an ugly man. 


226 


JUDITH STERN. 


“ The most beautiful woman of all whom he had 
ever succeeded in pleasing was his own wife. 

“ I am now rather an old man, and have seen more 
womanly beauty — for I have traveled widely, and 
kept my eyes open everywhere — than most people can 
claim to have noticed ; and I am married to a wife 
that even now, when we have grown-up children, still 
pleases my eyes as in my bridegroom days. And yet, 
as I think of the hour when I stood for the first time 
in the presence of my master’s wife, it seems to me as 
though I felt again the electric thrill that then passed 
through me from my head to the soles of my feet. 

“ I was, indeed, a verdant youngster then. I had 
seen in my little native town all sorts of pretty girls, 
and had gained from the engravings and plaster-heads 
from which I drew some feeble notion that there must 
be far other divine miracles than the apothecary’s 
daughter or the rector’s niece. I had never been to 
the gallery at Dresden. And if I had, what, in such 
youthful years, is all the charm and glory of a Titian 
or a Raphael compared with a piece of perfect Nature 
that breathes, and smiles, and lives, and moves ? 

“ And this woman ! 

“ She was, at the most, one or two years older than 
I, but had been already four years married. You 
know how early Jewesses come to maturity. As I 
was led into the conservatory by her husband (who 
received me at once as one who belonged to the house 
— almost as an own son), and was introduced to his 
wife, she stood by a large window, before which trop- 
ical flowers were growing, and held a child in either 


JUDITH STERN. 


227 


arm. A year after her marriage twins had been born 
to her ; after that she had no more children. The 
boys were, perhaps, in their second year — the images 
of their beautiful mother, who seemed by no means 
burdened by their double weight, though they were 
unusually strong, well-grown children. She was — as 
I noticed later, for at the first moment all my senses 
reeled — of the most perfect stature, half a head taller 
than her husband, and perhaps in later years a little 
too large ; but at that time this was only the beauti- 
ful fresh strength and bloom of a youthful woman, 
who had never known an hour of sickness, never 
known want, and, above all, who had in her veins the 
unmixed blood of one of the old races of the Orient. 

“ I will not try to describe her face to you. Only 
this : that the features were not perfectly regular, 
but that they also did not betray at first sight the so- 
called Jewish type. But the whole complexion, the 
innocent fire in her eyes, the milk-white, perfectly 
uniform pallor of the delicate skin — basta ! I see I 
am beginning to paint her, after all. 

“ She bade me welcome in the most cordial man- 
ner, without putting down the children from her arms ; 
asked after my people at home, and said that I must 
come at once to her when I was in need of anything. 
She hoped it would grow to be like home for me in 
her house. And then she gave the children to their 
father, who stroked their little curly heads and gave 
them back to her. He was not exactly liberal with 
the outward signs of his affection. I have never seen 
him even press his wife’s hand in the presence of 


228 


JUDITH STERN . 


other people. Whoever saw him "beside her could 
hardly imagine that they were a married couple. 
But in her glance, that constantly turned upon him 
with a shy and charming humility, there seemed to 
shine a genuine love for the husband that was more 
than thirty years older than she. 

“ I was truly like a child of the house ; and the 
wife, above all, especially strove to fill a sort of moth- 
er’s place toward me. My room was above, in the 
attic story ; but I sat all day in the workshop below, 
and worked diligently, for I felt a burning ambition 
to please the master of the house, and now and then 
to be praised by him before his wife. This was not 
altogether a school-boyish desire for praise, or an im- 
pulse of vanity to appear as a talented young man in 
the eyes of the beautiful woman ; but it all arose 
from a feeling, at first indistinct, then constantly be- 
coming clearer, that I must bring things to a point 
where I should be indispensable to the house ; for I 
fancied that I should soon sink into wretched misery 
if I could no longer see the beautiful being. 

“ Do not misunderstand me ; I was a thousand 
miles from the thought of being in love with my mis- 
tress. I should have despised myself as the worst 
monster of ingratitude that the earth had ever borne 
if this thought had entered my head. My admira- 
tion for my master was so enthusiastic, my devotion 
to his wife so romantically chivalrous, that I should 
have appeared to myself like a profaner of the tem- 
ple if I had thought of that which swelled and boiled 
within me as a passionate impulse. Then, too, there 


JUDITH STERN. 


229 


was such a pure, patriarchal atmosphere in this house, 
that even when young people came as guests — rela- 
tives of the wife, or travelers passing through, who 
often came from far off with introductions to David 
Stern — nothing occurred which savored of flirtation 
or frivolity, however much this might have been con- 
sidered good ton in other rich houses in those days. 

“ For this reason it could not strike me as pecul- 
iar, or open my eyes to my real situation, that I re- 
mained altogether unattracted by the fascinations of 
any of the young girls — and there were a few genu- 
ine national faces among them, that passed for great 
beauties in the town. I agreed with myself that I 
owed it to the house where I had been so kindly re- 
ceived to lay aside, once for all, all these foolish, boy- 
ish performances and childish love-affairs, such as I 
had perhaps been guilty of before, so that I might 
not give rise to any annoyances. I did not think I 
could survive a chiding glance from the eyes of the 
honored mistress of the house. 

“ Thus I spent three industrious years under this 
roof in a truly exemplary soberness of life. My 
companions of my own age looked upon me as a Phil- 
istine of the worst order — my parents as the pearl of 
sons. I did not rightly know what my master thought 
of me ; but he rather encouraged me to take some 
pleasure now and then than favored my lonely, stay- 
at-home ways. Frau Judith was always the same in 
her behavior. I never saw her alone ; she never spoke 
with me but of every-day matters ; and in general she 
spoke but little. 


230 


JUDITH STERN. 


“ But sometimes, when a larger circle was assem- 
bled, and sparks of wit and jest flew freely about, a 
hidden power of mockery and humor seemed to un- 
fold in her, so that she often put the wittiest to flight, 
and began a laugh as fascinating as that which only 
young girls are wont to give. Then she blushed at 
her own audacity, and cast something like an appeal- 
ing glance toward her husband. But he seemed to 
find it all as it should be, nodded smilingly at her, 
and said, ‘ You have one of your bright days, my 
child ; wisdom that one doesn’t use, and a buried 
treasure — what are they good for ? ’ 

“One evening, when I came as usual, after the 
closing of the work-room, to the table, at which the 
bookkeeper and a few old friends of the family were 
the other constant guests, I saw a strange face, that 
even at the first glance made an inexplicably repellent 
impression upon me. It was that of a young Jewish 
physician, belonging to a collateral branch of the 
family that had settled in Portugal. He had long 
lived in Paris, and had suddenly — Heaven knows for 
what reasons ! — made the plan of settling in Leipsic 
and seeking a practice there. His name was Dr. Asser 
Alcobara. He might have been ten years older than 
I, but he had one of those faces that have never been 
young, and seem never to grow old. Every feature 
of it was intellect and life ; the large mouth was sur- 
rounded, even when he was silent, with little, serpent- 
like wrinkles ; something like scorn and contempt for 
men, and reckless strength of will, trembled in the 
nostrils of the lightly-curved, thin nose ; the yellow- 


JUDITH STERN. 231 

ish cheeks were a little haggard and sunken ; I never 
saw them change color hut once. 

“ He could not have been in the best of circum- 
stances. At all events, his black suit was a good deal 
worn ; a fact which, nevertheless, did not hinder him 
from conducting himself with the greatest self-posses- 
sion in the princely mansion. I heard on this same 
evening that the master, in his usual helpful way, had 
had a lodging arranged for him in the largest of three 
or four houses which he owned in Leipsic. 

“This was, it is true, a kind of quarters which 
might not have suited every one. The house, three 
stories high, stood empty the whole year round ; for 
all the rooms were let to tradespeople who only came 
to Leipsic at fair-times, and used the large chambers 
only as warehouses for their goods. Only in the third 
story the bookkeeper of the proprietor had two little, 
low rooms, furnished with barely what was necessary 
to make them habitable, as he set up his office there 
at the time of the fairs, that he might be on hand for 
the coming and departing tenants. 

“ It was in this dreary and empty warehouse that 
the doctor was to live until he had found a more suit- 
able lodging. Frau Judith, who treated him, as she 
did everybody else, with pure-hearted kindness, smil- 
ingly asked him if he had no fear of ghosts. For 
herself, such an oppressive shudder seized upon her 
every time that she even entered the courtyard of that 
house, that she had never been able to prevail upon 
herself to go up-stairs and see for herself the long, 
narrow passages and close rooms of the interior. 


23 2 


JUDITH STERN. 


“ He was ghost-proof, the guest replied, with a 
peculiar smile. All good spirits served their master, 
and, as for the had, they had no power over him. 

“ I do not know what it was that so especially 
struck me in this declaration, which seemed to the 
others a mere jest. I saw the cold, searching glance 
of the black eyes, and slight trembling of the nostrils ; 
and, thoroughly repulsive as the face was to me, I 
felt compelled, as by some mysterious enchantment, 
to keep my eyes constantly fastened upon it. And 
thus it did not long escape me what a singular ex- 
pression animated his features whenever he looked at 
the mistress of the house. 

“I had never seen a man look upon a beautiful 
woman with an expression of such transport, yet at 
the same time with such a look of will — an expres- 
sion almost of command. He behaved coolly and for- 
mally toward her, addressed his conversation chiefly 
to her husband, and appeared, in his most careless 
moods, to be only intent upon delighting the company 
at table with witticisms and stories of varied adven- 
ture in far countries where he had traveled. When 
all yielded to the fascination of his conversation, 
and even the master joined in the laughter, he cast a 
long, bright look from his deep eyes at the beautiful 
wife ; but she was as little troubled as the rest because 
he did not himself wear a merry look while he amused 
the others. 

“ I hated him from this time forth ; hated him all 
the more intensely because by his means I had been 
for the first time terribly enlightened as to my own 


JUDITH STERN. 


233 


condition. The passionate longing that I discovered 
in his glance, and that seemed to me like a deadly sin 
against this noble woman — a sacrilege in the very 
holy of holies of this happy home — I must needs ac- 
knowledge to myself, within my four silent walls, 
with a pang of horror, that a similar fatally evil flame 
had burned in my breast also, and suddenly, fanned 
by jealousy of this stranger, threatened to break forth 
from its concealment and overwhelm me utterly. 

“ What a night I spent, and how I hardly dared to 
look the new day in the face ! — spare me the descrip- 
tion of all this. The members of the household, and, 
above all, Frau Judith, asked me what ailed me. I 
must at once have Dr. Alcobara’s advice, who was al- 
ready looked upon as a kind of family physician. You 
can imagine what my feelings were at the thought of 
this ; and how I strove, by a livelier bearing, to give 
the lie to my pallid face. 1 deceived them all ; only 
she, who was the source of the trouble, looked at me 
with silent wonder. I saw her soft eyes resting upon 
me oftener than usual. 

“ In the eyes of the doctor himself I appeared to 
be as good as non-existent. I thanked him in secret 
for his unconcealed neglect ; for now I could go on 
hating him as heartily as I pleased, and with good con- 
science. 

“ I soon saw that I was the only one who seemed 
to be proof against his seductive arts. A week had 
not passed before he had not only become as firmly 
fixed in the Sterns’ house as if it could never get on 
without him again, but he had also begun to make fair 


234 


JUDITH STERN. 


weather and foul in all the Jewish circles of the city, 
and some of the Christian ones as well. Yet he came 
to us every evening ; sometimes quite late, on occa- 
sions when he had not been able to refuse an invita- 
tion to some other house. Old David Stern, in spite 
of his wdsdom and knowledge of men, was fairly en- 
chanted by him ; he talked with him of matters in the 
discussion of which he could seldom find a worthy op- 
ponent. Only Frau Judith seemed unable to rid her- 
self of a secret dislike toward him ; but I saw that, 
for her husband’s sake, she struggled not to let this 
prejudice against their new friend appear. 

“ And I — I grew constantly more and more morose, 
awkward, and melancholy, in the midst of the merry 
circle ; but as time passed, my altered mood no longer 
inspired sympathy. It was only that I was found less 
amiable than I used to be ; the girls made fun of me 
for it at first, but at last even they were tired of it. 
They preferred to listen to the bright chat of the doc- 
tor, who might have twisted all of them around his 
finger. And the fact that he did not take the trouble 
to use his power with any one — that was the only 
thing that insulted them. 

“ And yet — when I look back at that infernal time 
— I was not utterly miserable even in the midst of my 
sufferings. A first strong passion, though it be ever 
so hopeless, wicked, and ruinous, is for a young man 
so wonderful a revelation of his own inmost nature, 
that he would not free himself from its most terrible 
pangs, if to do so he would have to give up further 
knowledge of his own heart. I went about as though 


JUDITH STERN. 


235 


in an enchanted dream. I could not understand how 
I could have seen that face so long without knowing 
that it would drive me to madness ; it never left me 
for an instant now ; not while I worked — not while I 
slept. Only when I saw it actually before me, there 
was something in the innocent nobility of its look that 
cooled my burning blood a little. My anger, because 
other eyes than mine looked with delight on this one 
treasured form, checked my emotion ; and my rage at 
my rivals crushed down for a while all those yearnings 
with which I reproached myself, as with sins. 

“ Several months of the summer had now passed 
away. The family, in ordinary cases, were accustomed 
to spend the heated season on a country estate near 
Sehonefeld, about a mile and a half from the city. 
This year the change of residence was delayed, osten- 
sibly on account of the doctor, who was kept in town 
by his rising practice. But the delay avenged itself 
in an unforeseen fashion. One of the twins, now a 
little fellow of four years old, was seized with a severe 
illness. The old, experienced physician, who contin- 
ued to visit the house even since the appearance of Dr. 
Alcobara, shook his head doubtfully. For the first 
time I saw these people, who seemed sought out by 
good-fortune, and favored beyond all others, in terri- 
ble anxiety. Frau Judith had never seemed more 
beautiful than now, with her great eyes weary with 
watching, her cheeks blanched, and yet without a word 
of complaint — in all the nobility of a mother’s deepest 
suffering. But even in these days of trouble and sor- 
row my passion was still my only thought, though I 


236 


JUDITH STERN. 


had greatly loved the poor child that now hovered be- 
tween life and death. 

“ Only when the old physician had answered the 
father’s question by saying that here science was pow- 
erless — that if Nature did not give some wonderful 
aid no recovery could be looked for — only then did 
the mother fall beside the little one’s bed in uncon- 
trollable emotion. 

“ At this moment Alcobara appeared. ‘ Will you 
permit me ? ’ he said to the father. Who could have 
answered him in the negative ? He immediately un- 
dertook the treatment of the child, according to a 
method which he said he had found widely employed 
in India. 

“ In three days all danger had passed. A week 
after the child ran about the garden as merrily as if 
it had never caused a moment’s care. 

“You can imagine how his rescuer was thanked. 
But, of all the gratitude and regard shown for him, 
nothing seemed to have any value in his eyes, save 
that the mother of the child whom he had saved met 
him with a grateful look, and now seemed, like every- 
body else, rather to seek his company than avoid it. 

“ Only with me all remained the same. The re- 
covery of the child, for which, under other circum- 
stances, I would have gladly made the greatest sacri- 
fices, hardly made any impression upon me, save that 
I was glad to be able to indulge my pitiable emotions 
without any minor thoughts connected with them. I 
played but a dreary part at the joyous festivity with 
which the parents celebrated the safety of their child; 


JUDITH STERN. 


237 


and, as early as I could, I withdrew from the rest, 
to absorb myself in my painful thoughts alone in the 
garden. 

“ There, near the end of the little park, stood a 
small summer-house, a simple hut of bark, in which I 
frequently made up during the hot afternoons for the 
sleep I lost at night. And at other times, too, I often 
spent many hours hidden there in the cool solitude. 
I believe — God pardon me for it ! — I even made verses 
there ! 

44 On that day, however, I was not capable of even 
this, but threw myself down on the bench that was 
built inside the hut against the front wall ; and, tired 
from the long control I had been compelled to exer- 
cise over myself at table, I soon fell into a refreshing 
self-oblivion. 

“ A voice, approaching from without, awakened me, 
and I saw, from the darkness in the summer-house, 
that I had slept for several hours. The voice now 
sounded close by the door : it was the doctor’s — my 
enemy’s. I hoped he would pass on ; but, instead of 
this, he opened the door, glanced quickly in, and said: 

4 There is no one there, and it is very cool inside ; 
shall we not go in for a moment, cousin? You are 
tired after the long dinner.’ 

44 4 1 would rather stay in the open air,’ I heard a 
voice answer, that pierced me to the very heart. 

44 4 Well, as you will,’ said the doctor again. 4 But 
at least sit down here outside for five minutes. The 
garden chairs are very comfortable, and you must let 
me play the tyrant a little with you. You must make 


238 


JUDITH STERN. 


up for these anxious days you have just passed ; they 
have tried you harder than you think yourself. Such 
a thing only makes itself felt later, if one is not careful.’ 

“ There were a few chairs outside the summer- 
house, just before the wall behind which was my bench. 
I could not help but hear every syllable ; and the fact 
that it was not right to listen to the conversation of 
others troubled me but little at that moment. I hated 
this man — I loved this woman. That was enough to 
put aside all hesitation. 

“ Besides, at first there was little that was remark- 
ably attractive in their conversation ; nothing which 
made the doctor’s talk different from his ordinary 
chat, unless, perhaps, at most, the tone of his voice. 
This seemed to me more insidious, treacherous, and 
exciting than usual ; and the way in which he was tell- 
ing of his journeys had in it something passionately 
sad. He spoke of how he had everywhere sought for 
happiness and peace — even for the knowledge whether 
happiness and peace were possible together. 

“ Wherever he had been happiest he had been soon- 
est driven away, either through bitter experiences or 
by a secret voice in his soul that ever whispered to 
him that his real happiness, his certainty, the solution 
of all life’s riddles, did not wait him there, but in 
another place. And so even the women of no foreign 
country had been able to enchain him. 

“And then he went into an apparently cool and 
almost scientifically ethnographic treatise on the beau- 
ty of women under different skies. Even the details 
of which he spoke were mentioned by him with so in- 


JUDITH STERN. 


239 


different a manner, so entirely as a matter of course, 
that even a delicate woman, if she would not seem to 
play the prude, could listen to him without objection. 
But for me it was detestable — this scientific license 
taken with the soul of this noble woman, who must 
needs sit still and hear i£ she would not offend the 
man to whom she owed such gratitude, or appear in 
his eyes as a narrow and prejudiced mind. 

“ I heard how she often sought to lead the conversa- 
tion into another channel. But he made as though he 
were too much carried away by his melancholy mood 
to turn to other things. * Ah, my dear cousin,’ he 
cried, ‘ if we but knew what years could make of us ! 
I think of no woman with deeper sympathy than of 
one whom I knew in Paris. Do not be afraid that I 
am going to tell you some tragic love-story. I know 
of nothing so tasteless as such confidences, especially 
between two people like us. For, apart from the fool- 
ishness of such a confession, must it not be ennuyant , 
or at least indifferent, to one beautiful woman to hear 
that other beautiful women exist ? Every beauty is 
the only one — and rightly ; she has never existed be- 
fore, will never exist again. And if she does not share 
the absurd German prejudice that she alone is to know 
nothing of her beauty, she has a right to rejoice in 
herself, apart from all comparison with others. 

“ ‘ The lady of whom I speak was beyond every 
temptation of pleasing, being of about the age of her 
husband ; and that everybody could see how exquisite- 
ly beautiful she must have been in her youth — who 
can believe that this was a consolation for her joyless 


240 


JUDITH STERN. 


existence ? It only sharpened with unusual force the 
bitterness of the loneliness and emptiness of her life. 
She herself confessed to me — and wept such true tears 
as are seldom shed in Paris — that she often cried aloud 
in the night from remorse and wretchedness, when the 
thought suddenly came to her how sinfully she had 
wasted the happiness of her youth — had let her life be 
spoiled by spectres of virtue ; had let her heart be 
chastened and her senses wither away ; and now ! — 
she would stretch out her arm across all the seven 
deadly sins, if beyond them there was a goblet with 
one full draught of happiness with which she could 
intoxicate herself and lull her regrets to sleep.’ 

“ It was silent for a moment before the summer- 
house ; and then I heard the soft voice of the woman. 

“ ‘ Indeed, yes,’ she said. ‘ It must be terrible to 
pass through old age alone, without husband and chil- 
dren.’ 

“ ‘ There is something more terrible still,’ I heard 
him answer — ‘ to have a husband and children, and yet 
be lonely ! 

“‘This lady,’ he continued, as Frau Judith found 
no answer at the instant — ‘ this old lady of fifty-five, 
who was everywhere looked upon as a most happy 
mbre defamille — husband honoring her, her children 
adoring her — confessed to me, nevertheless, in one of 
those hours when the inner nature breaks forth from 
such a carefully-guarded woman’s soul, as though it 
obeyed some demon’s force — she confessed to me that 
she could not pardon herself for not having seized by 
the forelock the one complete happiness that had ever 


JUDITH STERN. 


241 


approached her. “ And what do you call a complete 
happiness ? ” I asked (with assumed naivete , for I knew 
the answer in advance). “ A reciprocated passion that 
lifts a human being above the narrow fate of a day — 
makes him the absolute ruler of his own life, so that 
he may give himself away, throw himself away, de- 
stroy himself — whatever he will — but freely , from his 
inmost soul ! — perfectly careless, and in disregard of 
every consequence ! ” This she had permitted to pass 
her by, from cowardice, from educated tameness of 
heart, from — Heaven knows what pitiable prejudices. 
And now it seemed to her the worst of deadly sins 
against her own nature, not only because she had made 
another wretched by it, but because she was even now 
ashamed at the thought that at the last day (she was 
a good Catholic) the Eternal Judge would ask, “ What 
interest hast thou gained with the talent of happiness 
intrusted to thee ? ” And she could then only answer, 
“ I have never broken a rule of social convenance , and 
have forgotten my rights as a human being in my du- 
ties as a housewife.” ’ 

“‘And what is your judgment of this woman?’ 
said Judith, after a moment’s silence. 

“ 4 1 consider her fate a tragic one ; and I think 
that the frankness that enabled her to confess it to 
herself and another was noble.’ 

“‘And to me her feeling, so far as I can in any 
way comprehend it, appears an unnatural and morbid 
condition ; and the boldness of making you acquaint- 
ed with it is truly detestable. My God, this Paris ! 
What distortions of true nature one must meet with 
11 


242 


JUDITH STERN. 


there ! A woman that counts her uprightness a sin — 
hut let us talk no more of it ! Some time, when you 
are yourself a happy husband and father, you will no 
longer think in this way — you will no longer admire 
that woman ! * 

“ ‘ Your supposition is impossible,’ I heard him an- 
swer, in a low voice. ‘ You yourself know it best. It 
is not kind of you to scoff at me, in addition to all my 
misery.’ 

“ ‘ I scoff at you, when I express a hope to see you 
happy ? ’ 

“‘Do not play the hypocrite, my cousin. Are 
you trying to deceive me or yourself ? You do not 
need those sharp woman’s eyes of yours to know that 
peaceful happiness, as they call it — a comfortable pro- 
vision for the heart in one of your customary mar- 
riages — has been impossible for me since I came into 
your house.’ 

“ I heard her suddenly rise ; but he seemed to hold 
her back. 

“ ‘ Why may not one speak of such a thing in all 
friendliness ? ’ he said, with no unusual excitement in 
his voice. ‘ Do not affect a narrower nature than you 
have, and turn away from the discussion of things 
that are unalterable, and that do not become better, 
more agreeable, or less true and certain, because one 
does not do them the honor to talk of them. If I had 
not told you, with this opportunity — truly an acciden- 
tal one and unsought — that all other women are indif- 
ferent to me since I have seen you, that I scorn water 
if I cannot quench my thirst in wine — if I had not 


JUDITH STERN. 


243 


told you this, would you have been any the less con- 
scious of it ? And can you make it a reproach to me 
that it is so — truly, when you are honestly yourself, 
and not following the commonplace traditions ? That 
fire burns, and that ice also makes one burn who touch- 
es it, however much it seems to cool — these are laws 
of Nature that are not overturned by all our petty 
struggles. And you see how little cause you have to 
hate or fear me. The matter is a far too serious one 
for me, and it has too much to do with what they call 
my “ life happiness,” to permit me to indulge in fig- 
ures of speech or trouble you with transcendental flour- 
ishes. Why do you knit your brow, J udith, and act 
as though I had said something very surprising and 
shocking to you ? 5 

“ His voice had grown so low that I had to press 
my ear close against the wall of hark to understand 
all his words. I trembled so much that I feared with 
every moment that those without would perceive that 
there was some one in the hut. 

“ But now I heard her voice, perfectly clear and 
strong, as if she would show that she had not a word 
to say that any one might not hear : 

“ ‘ You are entirely in error. Nothing in my life 
has ever surprised me more than your words ; nothing 
has ever shocked me more than that you consider that 
as natural and matter-of-course which seems to me 
vile and horrible. I am accustomed to being thought 
beautiful ; I should he a foolish hypocrite if I were to 
deny it. But I have also always been accustomed to 
have respect for my husband, and esteem for my own 


244 


JUDITH STERN. 


pure life, put to silence any such mad feelings as you 
have just dared to express to me. Of this I can assure 
you, that, with the first word of it, I should have 
turned my hack upon any one hut yourself. You 
have saved my child, and for that I condescend to 
answer you. And for the same reason I shall not 
carry out what I should otherwise have believed to be 
my duty — to tell my husband all that I have heard 
from you, and leave the answer to him ! ’ 

“ ‘ Your husband ? ’ he interrupted, quickly. 4 Ah, 
my dear cousin, how little you must esteem David 
Stern’s wisdom and knowledge of human nature if 
you think you would tell him any news in telling him 
this ! Do you really believe he could imagine he could 
possess such a wife, and alone of all men — he, the man 
of fifty-five — have eyes for her beauty, her brilliancy, 
her power over the hearts of all men and youths ? A 
blind man must needs see how, among the rest, the 
unhappy light-haired boy that is looked upon by you 
all as a son of the house is devouring himself in silly 
passion for his beautiful foster-mother. The youngster 
is not particularly according to my taste ; but if he 
should chance, on account of those very qualities that 
make him so uninteresting for me, to be looked upon 
with favor by that beautiful woman, I should be as 
little surprised at it as my honored cousin, your hus- 
band. And yet he permits him in the house, and be- 
haves as though he did not see how this lad sits oppo- 
site his wife like butter in the sun. And you would 
open the eyes of this wise man to something that goes 
on about him — him, who must either bury or wall up 


JUDITH STERN. 


245 


the treasure that belongs to him, or submit when it 
attracts other eyes and affections ? My dear cousin, 
let us not seek to deceive ourselves : I know no other 
sin but that. To take things honestly and courage- 
ously as they are ; if they displease us, to make them 
as little injurious as we may ; when they do please us, 
to take advantage of them as far as possible, to sjffce 
this tasteless life — ’ 

“ 4 Enough ! ’ she interrupted. ‘ Spare me your 
philosophy — that can never be mine. And now, one 
thing more before I leave this subject forever. In 
what concerns the pupil and foster-son of my husband, 
you gravely slander him if you attribute to him ideas 
such as appear to have become familiar to you from 
your Parisian experiences. He possesses all that is 
wanting in you, to prevent his ever violating, even in 
the merest dream, his duty, respect, and gratitude tow- 
ard the house that has become a second home to him. 
And now, once for all, enough and too much of such 
matters ! I will strive to forget this hour ; I am too 
much in your debt not to give you that much of grati- 
tude, difficult as it is for me. Help me to do so : only 
by that means can you atone for that which has de- 
based you in my eyes.’ 

“ She hastened away from the hut. I heard her 
light step rustle away over the gravel. Immediately 
after he also rose from his seat ; but he seemed to 
have no desire to overtake her and reenter the house 
with her. I heard a few inarticulate sounds, a singular 
gnashing and hissing, then a loud laugh, and the en- 
deavor to sing a Spanish ballad, that ceased after a 


246 


JUDITH STERN. 


line or two. Then he moved slowly on, and his steps 
died away in the deeper intricacies of the park. 

“ It was a full hour before I had so far recovered 
from my fearful excitement, stupefaction, and confu- 
sion of mind, as to be able to regain the control of 
my limbs and slip out of the summer-house. My 
condition was indescribable ; but if one can give any 
account whatever of chaotic states of feeling experi- 
enced so many years ago, I can hardly help thinking 
that neither my horror at the cold-blooded, treacher- 
ous audacity of this satanic being, nor respect for such 
noble, womanly purity and quiet security from wrong, 
was the controlling emotion in my confused mind ; 
but rather a singular, mysterious happiness, an un- 
canny feeling of triumph because my secret was be- 
trayed — betrayed to her from whom I had so anxious- 
ly concealed it — her who did not seem to give the 
least credit to its revelation. 

“I could never have let it pass my lips to any 
human being — least of all to herself. And now sud- 
denly — she knew it ! It was incredible ; it almost 
made my brain reel as I sought to comprehend it 
clearly. 

“ This service that the doctor had done me behind 
my back nearly reconciled me with the man I hated 
so bitterly. He almost seemed to me worthy of a 
certain sympathy, now that he was cast off and put 
to shame ; and I could almost have been capable of a 
magnanimous bearing toward him, now that I had 
myself heard that I ‘possessed all the qualities that 
were wanting in him.’ 


JUDITH STERN. 


247 


“ But, as soon as I saw him again, on the same 
evening, I easily perceived that such a man could 
never be in need of the mercy or sympathy of any 
other human being. 

“The customary faces were collected again this 
evening around the lamp in Frau Judith’s drawing- 
room. None was brighter or more indifferent than 
my enemy’s. He jested with them all in his old 
fashion ; drew the master of the house into a discus- 
sion on a new English book that he had brought him ; 
talked with an old aunt of Frau Judith about gym- 
nastics, which were just then the rage, and had been 
recommended for the twins, little as they were ; and 
even, contrary to his custom, asked me to accompany 
one of the nieces, a very pretty girl, in a new song, of 
which they had recently been speaking. I was a very 
indifferent singer, but I could not escape, and we exe- 
cuted our duet tolerably enough. During the song I 
caught a glance from the beautiful wife, who seemed 
to regard me differently from usual. There was some- 
thing estranged and sad in her look — not unfriendly, 
but absent-minded and weary, as if she had long pon- 
dered over a riddle, and at last had given up any at- 
tempt to find its solution. 

“ She did not speak a word to the doctor this even- 
ing, but no one remarked it. 

“ After that day, the life in the Sterns’ house went 
on as though nothing had happened. Frau Judith 
seemed in earnest in her promise to forget the scene 
at the summer-house. At all events, she soon treated 
the doctor quite as usual again ; so that I often had 


248 


JUDITH STERN. 


to .think, when she answered lightly some jest he 
made, whether I had not dreamed all that conversa- 
tion, which must otherwise have placed a certain gulf 
between two people forever. I would have given my 
life to have known how he felt meanwhile. She evi- 
dently knew herself to be fully armed in her inmost 
soul against every influence of this dangerous being. 
Was this natural, or the result of a deliberate will? 
I could not tell. 

“ But I noticed that that hour had brought about, 
in her relations to me, a change from which I suffered 
not a little. She avoided meeting me as much as she 
could; hardly ever invited me, except in the custom- 
ary household hours of meeting, to take part in any- 
thing with her — a walk, an hour in the children’s play- 
room ; and seldom addressed her conversation to me. 
It even appeared to me as though she had spoken to 
her husband about me ; for the master of the house 
was a little more distant to me, gave me more work 
than usual, and took occasion to send me on short busi- 
ness journeys, as if he designed to change the current 
of my thoughts. For the rest, however, when he had 
anything to say to me, his tone was as kind and father- 
ly as ever — if anything, a little warmer than before. 

“ But all this could make no change in my inner 
state. I continued to make wretched verses, and in- 
volved myself in a labyrinth of dreams, now all the 
more hopeless because I had been able to look more 
deeply into the nature of this beloved woman, and to 
find it utterly removed from all womanish weakness. 

“ One afternoon I was summoned from the work- 


JUDITH STERN. 


249 


room to ‘ tlie old man,’ as the apprentices and assist- 
ants were wont to call him. I found him in his library; 
he had been writing letters ; his wife was busy pack- 
ing a trunk; his old bookkeeper was also present, 
awaiting the master’s orders. He informed us that 
one of his London friends and patrons was dead. His 
valuable art-collection was to be sold at auction, and 
he was obliged to attend in order to obtain a certain 
collection of carved gems — a business which he could 
not delegate to any one. He proposed to return in 
three weeks. Until that time he confided different 
matters and affairs to us ; to me especially the care of 
his house, and, in case of danger from fire, the saving 
of certain caskets, in which he was accustomed to 
keep the most precious of his treasures. More than 
all, however, I was to be responsible for the welfare 
and protection of his family. ‘You are aware, Ben- 
jamin,’ he said, with his mild and piercing glance — he 
always called me by this name, which my father had 
given me besides my actual given-name, Henry, be- 
cause he thought I should remain the youngest — ‘ you 
are aware, my dear son, what a proof of my confidence 
I give you in this. You will prove worthy of it — I 
know your heart.’ 

“ He extended his hand to me ; I stammered a few 
words with a blush. With any one else I should have 
been doubtful, after this scene, whether his wife had 
really told him everything concerning me. But, in 
the case of this singular man, I was now for the first 
time convinced that he knew all. 

“ When he was gone, I made for the first time a 


250 


JUDITH STERN. 


hearty effort to smother the fatal flame that burned in 
me. I kept the last look of my old and father-like 
friend constantly before me, and the detestation I 
must have for myself if I looked with longing eyes 
upon any one of the jewels intrusted to me ; and now 
— enough ; I made the strongest resolutions. 

“ To make it easier for myself, I hit upon the idea 
of devoting myself to the prettier of the two nieces, 
with whom I often sang duets. The good girl had 
come to visit Frau Judith upon David Steam’s depart- 
ure, so that she might not want for company. So I 
could see her all day long ; and she was really so 
charming that it would rather have appeared strange 
if a young companion in the house with her had not 
fallen in love with her. And as I may not have failed 
in pleasing her, and the garden was large enough to 
lose one’s self and find one’s self in it as much as 
one pleased, and the summer evenings did their part 
with warmth and the perfume of jasmines, and moon- 
light, full of sentiment — there really arose a little ro- 
mance, very innocent and almost childish for so well- 
grown a couple ; but still, considering my previous 
extraordinary virtues in this respect, such an unheard- 
of thing, that it formed a topic of conversation in the 
house. 

“ The social life was continued after the departure 
of the master. The doctor came every evening ; there 
were singing and reading aloud ; all kinds of social 
games were played, and Fraulein Dinah and I, as is apt 
to be the case, were a good deal chaffed and made fun 
of in an indirect fashion. I bore this all the more 


JUDITH STERN . 


251 


willingly because the good girl really was of little im- 
portance to me, and I* was sure I should never let the 
affair get beyond a little social gallantry. But I was 
on this account all the more surprised when, one even- 
ing after the company had dispersed, Frau Judith 
called me back ; she had a word to say to me. 

“ £ My dear Henry,’ she said, and her beautiful face 
blushed with the diffidence of a girl, ‘ you must not 
take it ill if I for once assume a maternal privilege, 
and beg you to take a little care. I must be very much 
mistaken if you have not put something into my little 
Dinah’s head. You are different toward her from what 
you used to be ; and such a young thing — you know it 
is easier to give rise to unfortunate things than to 
make them good again.’ 

“ I was greatly disturbed by this motherly exhor- 
tation, and stammered that I had never meant any- 
thing by my little attentions. 

“ ‘ That is just it,’ she continued, with more spirit; 

‘ that is what I have noticed in you, and it was for 
that reason that I thought it necessary to speak with 
you. If you really had an affection for the dear girl, 
why should we not rejoice at it ? You are still very 
young, but my husband thinks a very great deal of 
you, and would certainly help you to soon begin some- 
thing independent, and to found a household of your 
own. But, for mere play, my Dinah is as much too 
good as you are yourself — don’t you feel it so ? It 
becomes you even less than others ; you are too 
thoughtful and good to trifle with the happiness and 
peace of any heart. So, now, I have finished my ser- 


2o2 


JUDITH STERN. 


mon. Now go, and promise me to think about it. I 
know we are quite of the same mind. ’ 

“ I could make no reply. My whole soul flamed 
up again toward this one being ; I could have thrown 
myself at her feet, and stammered forth, ‘ If you only 
knew why I plunged into this foolish trifling ! — how 
much worse was the earnest feeling I sought to smoth- 
er by it ! ’ 

“ I restrained myself. But, as she offered me her 
hand — a favor that was very rare with her — I grasped 
it passionately, pressed my lips upon it hurriedly, and 
rushed away from her like a madman. 

“ She was far too sensible to see anything more in 
this than repentance and confusion over my trifling 
error toward the innocent girl. The next day I 
caught her glance more seldom ; she again avoided 
meeting me. 

“ On the other hand, the doctor had for some time 
decidedly taken me into favor, without taking any 
notice of the fact that I continued sullen toward him 
as before. I puzzled my brains over what could sud- 
denly have become interesting about me. It is true 
he still treated me half ironically, but like a man 
whom he liked, however much he neglected him. At 
the same time he would treat me as an equal for hours 
together, and introduce such conversations as are gen- 
erally fitted only for very experienced men of the 
world. Soon after I had somewhat withdrawn my 
attentions from my young lady (she took it more to 
heart than I had expected, and I was therefore in a 
most desperate mood), he suddenly took the opportu- 


JUDITH STERN. 


253 


nity, one evening in the garden, to warn me against 
these apparently innocent triflings. 

“ ‘ You young people in Germany,’ said he, almost 
angrily, ‘ are in reality a great deal worse with your 
transcendental, sentimental love-affairs than a hard- 
ened young Don Juan in France or Spain, who knows 
his own mind precisely, and doesn’t stop half-way. 
As for confusing the heart of some little goose with 
languishings and cooings — nonsense ! Both sides gaiil 
nothing from it but lost time and an insipid recollec- 
tion, as one spoils his digestion with too much lem- 
onade. 

“ ‘ Be a man, worthy Henry. I can assure you 
that it is a most pitiable spectacle to see how you 
waste your best time so wretchedly, instead of under- 
standing your own advantage, and opening your eyes 
to what all see. You do not consider me your friend, 
I know ; and you do me great injustice. But I 
wouldn’t see even my worst enemy in your shoes ! 
Caramba ! as if it needed such great skill to outgrow 
the narrow limits one’s worthy mother has set for one, 
and that are far too confined, with all their corners 
and ends, as soon as one is free from the apron-strings. 
However, it’s your affair, whether you would rather 
be envied or have people shrug their shoulders at you.’ 

“You can imagine what an effect such a speech 
had upon me, for you know sufficiently well what an 
unformed youngster I must have been at that time. 
I did not answer a syllable, so much was I confounded 
by this revelation — so puzzling did the riddle seem to 
me. What could suddenly have induced my rival and 


254 


JUDITH STERN. 


companion in suffering to encourage me in my wicked 
and desperate feelings, instead of combating them as 
his own interests dictated ? 

“ It is true, he was in such a good mood, so harm- 
less and at ease in his behavior toward the lady, that 
any one else would have imagined he had succeeded in 
conquering his passion. But I could not think that 
probable ; I knew how impossible it was to break the 
enchantment, even though one should feel that it was 
costing him his life. 

“ The three weeks were long since past, and still 
the master of the house did not return. He had not 
been able to refuse the invitation of another of his 
business friends who desired to show him, at his coun- 
try-seat, a quantity of new purchases, to get his opin- 
ion of them. Other connections, as honorable as they 
were profitable, had joined with this, and the return 
journey had to be put off from week to week. But 
he wrote almost daily, sent regular messages to me, 
and had asked his wife, since there was still a pros- 
pect of a full month’s work for him, whether she 
would not prefer to go at once into the country. 

“This proposal gave Frau Judith precisely the op- 
portunity she wanted, to separate me from Dinah. 

“ The little niece, with the twins and a sufficient 
number of servants, was therefore dispatched in ad- 
vance to the country-estate ; Frau Judith was to fol- 
low a few days later, as she still had a good deal to 
arrange in the town-house, and to order for the coun- 
try. I was to stay in the city, and only to go out for 
short visits ; the doctor promised to do the same. 


JUDITH STERN. 


255 


“ I was alarmed as I was informed of this coming 
separation. Yet, on the other hand, I was almost glad 
that any kind of change was about to take place in my 
situation, which had grown almost unbearable. 

“ When all was so far ready that the mother could 
follow the children, she invited the doctor and me to 
accompany her, especially as it happened to be a holi- 
day, and I had a very hard week’s work behind me. 
The days had begun to grow shorter — it was the be- 
ginning of September. Yet it was still so warm that 
Frau Judith sent the remaining trunks ahead with her 
faithful maid, and waited for evening for her own 
journey. 

“As the carriage started at last, and we three 
rolled through the darkening streets of the town, the 
doctor, who was in an especially amiable mood, pro- 
posed to his cousin to take a slightly roundabout way 
in order that she might at last, as she had often prom- 
ised, take a look at his lodging in the great warehouse. 
Even then we should arrive in the country before the 
children were put to bed, for whom their mother had 
been longing. 

“At first Frau Judith seemed to consider for a 
moment ; but, as there was really no reason to reject 
the proposal, the coachman was told to stop at the 
well-known house. 

“ This building, with its constantly-closed windows, 
and the dark lower story, where a gas-light burned 
even at noon, had always made an unpleasant impres- 
sion upon me also. But to-day, thanks to the doctor’s 
lively mood, I really longed to penetrate into the 


256 


JUDITH STERN. 


labyrinthine interior, especially in her company, which 
made every place delightful to me. 

“ The heavy gate was already closed when the car- 
riage stopped before it. Only after repeated ringing 
did the janitor, who was the only watchman, open a 
little door in the great wing of the portal, apologize 
for his delay by saying that he had not known of the 
proposed visit and had been asleep, and finally admit 
us, with many bows, into the dark hall, where to-day, 
it being a holiday, even the gas-light was wanting. 
The doctor, prepared for such cases, took out a pock- 
et-lantern, and went before us up the stairs, carefully 
illuminating the worn steps. 

“ The stairs led us, however, only to the first story. 
There the space for the rest of the staircase had been 
devoted to storing goods, and one had to pass through 
the long, narrow corridors that inclosed the interior 
court on three sides, in order to reach the rear stair- 
way. I will not try to explain to you the complicated 
plan of this singular structure. If you choose, we can 
hunt out the house in Leipsic ; it is still unchanged, 
only even more dusty and deserted than it was then. 
In broad daylight it will at least be less horrible in it 
than it was for me on that evening, when the pale 
light now and then illuminated the pallid face and 
piercing black eyes of our guide, as he looked round 
to see if the beautiful woman was following him — and 
I, whom even the rustling of her dress made to shudder. 

“ None of us spoke a word. In the corridor of the 
second story the doctor paused a moment and opened 
a door, the only one that was unlocked. 


JUDITH STERN. 


257 


“ ‘ Look in here for a moment, cousin,’ said he. ‘ It 
is a chapel. The Greeks at the fair have hired the 
room and arranged it for their worship.’ 

“ He lighted up a little of the interior. The yellow 
metal of the candlesticks on the altar, the legendary 
figures of saints on a golden ground — all this looked 
out at us for a moment from the black darkness, and a 
trace of incense was wafted toward us. It was suf- 
focatingly close ; all the windows were closed. Only 
a cat sat above upon the pulpit, and seemed extremely 
comfortable there. She turned her yellow eyes indif- 
ferently upon us, and then went to sleep again. 

“ ‘ Next door there is a lot of cotton goods waiting 
for the next fair ; and on the other side a cigar-manu- 
facturer has his establishment. It is remarkable what 
excellent relations the god Mammon maintains with 
the Holy Trinity ! ’ 

“And the doctor, contrary to his usual custom, 
laughed loudly at his own jest. 

“ He was as though he had been drinking wine. 
We others — the janitor had withdrawn again into his 
conciergerie in the hall below — were in far too uncom- 
fortable a state to join in our leader’s merry mood. 

“And now up another flight of stairs, and at last 
we stood before the door that led into the doctor’s 
lodging. When he had let us in and lighted the 
lamp, we saw a roomy apartment, but low, and not in 
much better order than the rest of the house. Large, 
old-fashioned furniture stood irregularly around ; in 
the middle was an enormous sofa, the table before it 
covered with books and manuscripts ; in the adjoining 


258 


JUDITH STERN. 


room there was nothing hut a narrow bedstead, which, 
however, did not seem to he used as a sleeping-place, 
for the pillows and mattress were all piled in a heap, 
and had no coverings. 

“‘For years I have given up going to bed,’ ex- 
plained the doctor, as he saw his cousin’s surprised 
look. ‘It’s a useless trouble for a practising physi- 
cian, who may be called up at any hour of the night. 
A poor settler can sleep or dream as well or as ill as 
he likes there on the sofa. Will you not sit down, 
cousin ? This cushion is not the worst thing in my 
hermitage.’ 

“She nodded slightly, but sat down in the seat 
near the table. I had gone to one of the three low 
windows, and looked across at the attic room over the 
way. The house stood on the corner of two streets, 
with its front turned toward the broader one. The 
doctor’s room looked out upon the narrow one ; and 
one could almost have touched the dormer-window 
opposite with his outstretched hand. 

“In the mean while, the doctor had unlocked a 
cupboard, and taken out two bottles of peculiar shape, 
a plate of biscuits, and a basket of pears and apricots. 

“ ‘ A knave gives more than he has,’ * laughed the 
doctor, throwing the books from the table, and putting 
the bottles and several glasses upon it. ‘ If I dreamed 
of so distinguished a visit under my roof, I should, of 
course, have been better prepared to play the host. 

* “Ein Schelm giebt mehr als er hat,” a German proverb, perhaps 
better rendered by the paraphrase, “ Nobody but a knave makes 
pretensions to having more than he really has.” 


JUDITH STERN. 


259 


Fortunately, this is a genuine Alicante, and this a 
sherry that is at least well vouched for. Spanish 
friends have sent me a box of these worthy country- 
men of mine. Taste them, cousin — only a drop of 
each. And these biscuits, though it’s true they are 
two days old — a doctor, that sometimes spends half 
the night with a patient, must have a bite on hand in 
case of need. — What are you looking at across the 
alley there ? The tailor’s wife is rather pretty, isn’t 
she ? But be careful how you flirt with her across the 
way ! Her husband is terribly jealous.’ 

“ I could not help falling in with his merry mood, 
to hide my trifling embarrassment at this ; for I had 
really had a glimpse of a little idyllic and cheery bit 
of domestic happiness in the attic lodging, and had 
silently envied the bright young couple sitting there. 

“ Now I came to the table and tasted the two wines, 
which were sweet and fiery, and touched my glass to 
Frau Judith’s, when the doctor proposed that we should 
drink from these twin-flagons to the health of her two 
boys. He knew that she could not refuse such a pro- 
posal, though she did not like wine. These sweet ones, 
however, she thought excellent, and a little of the 
cloud passed away from her brow. 

“ At length we chatted ourselves into a feeling of 
comfort and ease. The doctor brought out all kinds 
of bric-d-brac from boxes and chests — memorials of 
his journeys, photographs of cities, paintings, and 
people — constantly something new and remarkable. 
The glasses were emptied and filled again ; and, as we 
had opened all the windows, the evening air that 


2G0 


JUDITH STERN. 


streamed in through them cooled the room and re- 
freshed us. 

“ Suddenly we heard the peculiar sound of a bell 
through the house. • 

“ The doctor sprang up. ‘ Hang it ! ’ he muttered, 
‘ why must that needs come just at this moment ? It 
is my patients’ bell,’ he said, turning to Frau Judith ; 
‘but, if it’s nothing so very urgent, I mean to have 
to-day as much to myself as if I were a man who did 
not live entirely for the coughs and indigestions of 
other people ! ’ 

“ He went to an opening in the wall, which we now 
observed to be the mouth of a speaking-tube, and said 
something into it. Immediately after the answer came 
back from the janitor’s room below. Both were unin- 
telligible to us. 

“ ‘ The devil is in it all ! ’ he cried, with every sign 
of the greatest annoyance. ‘ As if that mad old Gene- 
ralin , who has imagined herself for a year to be lying 
at the point of death, and may really outlive us all, 
must needs send for me just at this moment ! And I 
can’t quarrel with her — I have her to thank for all my 
practice among the Christian circles of Leipsic ! ’ 

“ ‘ But what if you were to be with us in the coun- 
try?’ 

“ ‘That’s just the worst of it ! Her servant recon- 
noitred from the street, and saw the light in this room. 
It’s absolutely impossible, the janitor says, for me to 
deny myself. The deuce take — I beg your pardon, 
my dear . cousin, for using the expression. May God 
permit her excellency to live a hundred years, if only 


JUDITH STERN. 


261 


for the next twenty-four hours — Wait ! 5 he sudden- 
ly interrupted himself, ‘ I see a way ! Here is a means 
of getting out of the scrape. Would you permit me, 
dear cousin, to make use of the carriage for a short 
quarter of an hour ? I cannot get a cab on a holiday 
like to-day — they have all gone out into the country. 
In five minutes I would be with the old plague ; five 
minutes to feel her pufce, look at her tongue, and scrib- 
ble the necessary amount of what is unnecessary on a 
prescription-paper ; five minutes for the drive back — 
total, a quarter of an hour, for which a tormented bene- 
factor of humanity will be forever thankful to you.’ 

“ I saw that a shadow passed over the beautiful 
face. But he seemed to think his request so entirely 
a matter of course, and her kindness was so well known, 
that he seized his hat and rushed out of the door, with- 
out waiting for a direct answer. 

“ Directly after, we heard the house-door shut be- 
low and the carriage roll away. 

“ And now I was alone with her — a. whole quarter 
of an hour ! I could not say a word, my heart beat 
so hard. I had taken a pear from the basket, and I 
began to pare it as carefully as if I were executing a 
work of art. And indeed I still remember accurately 
what passed through my mind as I did so : ‘If you 
cut off the whole skin to the end without breaking the 
thin strip, the quarter of an hour will pass like a hun- 
dred others. But if it breaks, something will happen 
that you do not dream of, to make you either very 
wretched or very happy.’ What would it be ? I could 
not tell. I kept my eyes fixed steadily upon the little 


262 


JUDITH STERN. 


fruit in my hands. I would not for the world have 
trusted myself to look at the woman sitting opposite 
me. How she looked in the mean time — whether she 
looked at me, or what she was thinking of — I did not 
know. I only felt that I could not go on long in this 
way — my hands trembled more and more. Suddenly 
she stood up ; the knife slipped into the skin of the 
pear and cut it off, and at the same time cut me in 
the hand — so startled had I been by the sudden move- 
ment. 

“ 4 What have you done ? ’ I heard her say — even 
now I could not look at her. ‘You have cut your 
hand — it is bleeding dangerously ; and just at the very 
moment when the doctor isn’t here, who could bind it 
up ! Good Heavens ! I believe you have cut an ar- 
tery ! ’ 

44 4 It is nothing,’ said I. ( I was clumsy. See, the 
blood is beginning to stop already.’ 

“ I pressed my handkerchief upon the place, but 
the blood flowed beneath it. 

“ 4 Let me see if I cannot make some kind of band- 
age for it,’ she said, quickly. 4 1 am quite skillful in 
such matters.’ 

44 She folded her delicate handkerchief into a nar- 
row band, and really succeeded in binding up the 
wounded place on my thumb so tightly that the blood 
was checked. I experienced the pain made by the 
drawing of the knot with a kind of positive pleasure. 

44 4 Can you bear it so tight ? ’ she asked. 

44 4 It does not hurt,’ I stammered, and looked at 
her for an instant as I spoke. Her face was slightly 


JUDITH STERN. 


263 


flushed, a light sigh agitated her breast ; she drew 
away her hands, in which I had felt the heating of 
her pulse. 

“ ‘ You are very careless,’ was all that she replied. 
Then she walked away from me to one of the open 
windows. 

“ At first I sought to remain by the table, and even 
took up a book, but the letters swam before my eyes. 
Before I fairly knew what I was doing, I stood by her 
at the window. 

“ The attic chamber opposite was lower than our 
window. We could see almost the whole depth of it. 
The tailor’s wife had just cleared away the supper ; 
her husband sat upon a worn-out sofa and smoked a 
cigar. Now his pretty young wife came in again, 
took some sewing from the bureau, and sat down be- 
side her husband, who chatted with her, and kept her 
laughing with his jests. She looked as pretty as might 
be, with her white teeth and the dimples in her cheeks, 
and, however poorly dressed she was, she was not 
without her little coquettish arts — which were very 
harmless, since they were only meant for her husband. 
Gradually there began a little quarrel, in sport, be- 
tween them. Each wanted to draw the light nearer — 
he had a newspaper lying before him — and so it went 
as far as a little combat between them, in which he 
seized her by the tip of the ear and kissed her, and she 
pretended to be cross, and tried to get farther away 
from him, and pull the light after her ; and, while he 
was reaching after it, the tin candlestick fell off the 
table, and the room became pitch dark. 


284 


JUDITH STERN. 


“Judith started back from the window as though 
she had awakened from a dream. 

“ 4 My God ! ’ she said. * Where are we, then ? 
How did we come here? Ah, yes — that was it — he 
said a quarter of an hour. What time is it ? I hope 
he will keep his word. I have a headache ; I long 
for the open air again.’ 

“ ‘ He must come back in a minute or two. The 
quarter of an hour is past.’ 

“ She sighed audibly, as if a stone had fallen from 
her breast. Then she paced the room without speak- 
ing a word ; but she paused from time to time, and 
seemed to listen to hear if none of the carriages that 
rolled through the street below stopped before the 
house. 

“ A second quarter of an hour passed in this way. 

“ ‘ It is treacherous ! ’ she broke out, with an ex- 
citement that was generally foreign to her. ‘ He 
knew that I depended on getting to the children early. 
They must be asleep by this time. But it serves me 
right — why did I consent ? Who can tell what may 
happen to a doctor to detain him longer than he 
wishes? I was opposed from the beginning to let- 
ting him have the carriage. He might have walked. 
And now we are here as though in a — ’ 

“ ‘ Prison,’ she would have said. But something 
checked the word. I leaned against the window-sill, 
with my back turned to the street ; I could not speak 
a syllable for the beating of my heart. 

“ ‘ I will go out ! ’ she said suddenly. 4 1 don’t 
care whither — butTiere — here it is suffocating. Please 


JUDITH STERN. 


265 


take the lamp, Henry. We will go down and have 
the door opened, and see if we can find a cab. It is 
horrible ! ’ 

“ I had seen two candles standing in the bedroom ; 
I brought them in silence, and lighted them both. 
She nodded as I handed her one, but did not look at 
me. She was singularly excited, as I had never seen 
her before. An expression of scorn and bitterness 
played about her lips ; but this face could disguise 
nothing. She had never seemed to me so queenly — 
so like those proud women of her race, of whom the 
legends tell. 

“ She went hurriedly on before me ; we left the 
lamp burning, and groped through the long corridors 
with only the flickering candles. I had pretty well 
grasped the plan of the house, and was able to act the 
guide. But, when we had descended the three flights 
of stairs, and had reached the dark hall below, we 
found, to our terror, that the door was closely locked, 
and the janitor’s lodge, in which a feeble night-light 
was burning, was empty. 

“ ‘ This, too ! ’ I heard Judith mutter to herself. 
( Call the man, Henry. He must be somewhere in 
the house.’ 

“ I called and searched in the court and the nooks 
about it. Ho trace of a living soul. 

“ When I went back to the expectant woman she 
was standing pressed close to the latch of the door, 
and listening. The light of the candle showed a 
pale, anxiously-strained face. 

“ I sought to soothe her ; the janitor must return 

12 


-266 


JUDITH STERN. 


in a moment, lie could not be far away ; and the car- 
riage, too, would not keep us waiting much longer. 

44 She seemed as though she did not hear what I 
said. 

44 4 If we should knock on the door here until some 
passer-by outside should hear us, so that we could 
send for a locksmith and have the door opened — ’ 

“I reminded her of the commotion that such a 
violent course would produce. 

44 4 It is true,’ she assented, gloomily. 4 Oh, it is 
fiendish — fiendish ! ’ 

44 We listened and waited again — ten breathless 
minutes. Then she drew herself up decisively. 

44 4 Do you stay here,’ she said, softly. 4 1 — I will 
go up again. As soon as any one comes to open the 
house let me know. It is impossible to remain here. 
The air here is like that in a cellar. I left my hand- 
kerchief up-stairs.’ 

44 1 offered to fetch it ; I sought to dissuade her 
from climbing the steep stairs again, and alone. 

44 4 Oh,’ she said, and tried to smile, though her 
lips trembled, 4 1 am not in the least afraid. The bad 
spirits are no longer under this roof. Let me go up 
without fear, and do you remain here on guard. I 
will take a book and read — it cannot last long now.’ 

44 With that she left me alone below. I heard her 
steps hasten up the first flight of stairs ; then I saw 
the light of her candle gleaming along the windows 
of the corridor, and thought that now she knew the 
way. I breathed a little freer when I found myself 
alone. The oppression that threatened to suffocate 


JUDITH STERN. 


267 


me in her presence slowly passed away from me. I 
puzzled over the way it had all happened, and over 
what it meant that the carriage did not come, that the 
janitor should leave the house and us ; over what she 
could have meant by the words 4 it is fiendish ! ’ A 
glimmering idea shot through my brain : I saw again 
the expression with which the doctor had opened the 
door of his lodging for us ; his grim smile — it had, 
indeed, a touch of the satanic ; and his unusual mer- 
riment, his pains to make us taste the wine. Oh, if 
all this should conspire together, if there were an 
object concealed behind it — 

“But he should not succeed. Suddenly I felt 
myself so turned into steel from head to foot by my 
horror at this fiendish ruse that I could have done battle 
with all the powers of darkness. I felt how the blood 
beat in my veins, and how my lips burned. I pressed 
my face against the iron door-lock, and through the 
key-hole breathed the cooler air that streamed through 
the street. And then I recalled the picture of my 
benefactor, the last words with which he had intrusted 
me with the care of his house ; I thought of my 
mother ; of the long life that still lay before me, and 
that I might poison by a few forgetful moments. I 
thought — 

“ Suddenly a shrill shriek rent my thoughts asun- 
der. I had heard my name called ; it was Judith’s 
voice ; and now again ‘ Henry ! ’ in a tone of anguish 
that made my hair stand on end — and then all was still. 

“ In an instant I was on the stairs ; I flew up the 
steps as fast as ever I could without extinguishing the 


268 


JUDITH STERN. 


candle in my liand ; I gazed along the corridors and 
called her name — nowhere anything to he seen, or any 
answer. In my fearful excitement I myself lost my 
way, missed the right story, and thought myself al- 
ready in the third when I had only reached the sec- 
ond. A sweat of anguish stood upon my forehead ; I 
called, I shrieked, I slipped upon the damp steps ; and 
at last, as I threw the light before me along a corridor, 
something lay upon the floor that looked like a woman 
that had fallen there. 

“ The next instant I was beside her. She lay be- 
fore the door of the Greek chapel, that was standing 
half opened. She had, probably, seeing the key in 
the door here, believed that she had reached the doc- 
tor’s room. The draught had blown out her light as 
she entered. And now I also saw what had thrown her 
down so rudely ; the cat, that crouched quietly on the 
floor at the extreme end of the corridor, must have 
sprung against her in the passage, and the terrible 
fright have caused her to swoon. 

“I set my candle carefully down, and bent over 
the insensible form. Her body rested against the 
door-post ; her head was sunk upon her breast. As I 
sought to bring her back to consciousness, my lips 
touched her cold cheek. My senses left me ; I trem- 
bled as though shaken by a fever ; but, as I sought to 
raise the beautiful form, I covered her forehead and 
hair with kisses, whispering her name with my lips 
close to her ear, but all in vain until my lips touched 
her cold mouth. Then it seemed as if an electric 
shock thrilled through her unconscious frame ; she 


JUDITH STERN. 


269 


raised her arms, her mouth began to breathe, as though 
in a dream she returned my kiss ; then suddenly she 
opened her eyes. ‘ O my God ! ’ she murmured , 1 what 
has happened ? ’ 

“ She came to herself in an instant, raised herself 
completely up, and stood by the wall, pushing back 
the disheveled hair from her forehead. 

“ ‘ Where are we, then ? ’ she asked — £ in heaven or 
hell ? Leave me — why did you come ? — I — I will — ■’ 

“ She did not know what she would. I had grasped 
her arm, and thrown my other arm about her to sup- 
port her. ‘ Lean upon me,’ I said ; ‘ I will lead you 
up the stairs. We cannot remain here.’ 

“ She made no opposition. I had seized the candle 
and led her slowly along to the end of the hall and 
up the stairs. My lips pressed her cheek again ; to 
this, too, she made no resistance ; but I dared not 
touch her lips. 

“ ‘ My God ! my God ! ’ 

“ That was all that, from time to time, escaped her 
lips. 

“ Where were, at this moment, all the good spirits 
that I had called upon so fervently but a short time 
before ? 

“ My candle was extinguished on the way. But at 
this moment we reached the door of the room where 
we had left the lamp burning. I know not what made 
me pause for a moment upon its threshold. Was it 
that I feared the light, as though it would awake us 
from our fatal infatuation when it should shine upon 
us ? I pressed the fainting figure closer ; for a moment 


270 


JUDITH STERN \ 


she did not resist it, but then she herself groped at the 
door, found the latch, and opened in anxious haste. 

“ But what a sight awaited us ! 

“ At the table before the sofa, exactly where I had 
sat when I had wounded my hand, sat a child, a little 
girl of about seven years of age, in a little white night- 
gown ; her brown hair fell unbound upon her shoul- 
ders. She seemed absorbed in the contemplation of 
the little cakes and the basket of fruit that were stand- 
ing on the table. Especially the pear that had been 
cut seemed to attract her attention, and the blood- 
stains on the plate. But she had laid her hands with 
outspread fingers on the table beside it, and now looked 
at us, as we stood on the threshold strangely startled 
at the sight of her, with great, timid, yet intelligent 
eyes. 

“ Her glance made me drop the arm that supported 
Judith, as though I had been a detected thief. I stared 
speechless at the child, who did not stir upon her chair, 
but only nodded her head confidingly. 

“ 4 1 haven’t eaten anything, ’she said, with a clear, 
frank little voice. 4 Truly I haven’t ! I only looked 
at the cakes, and perhaps the Herr Doctor will give 
me one. Father will not scold, will he, because I got 
out of bed again ? It was so hot in the room ; and 
then, I heard some one walking about outside ; I 
thought it was the Herr Doctor. Sometimes he gives 
me a little cake — and I was hungry, a little. But I 
mustn’t take anything — that would be wrong, wouldn’t 
it?’ 

44 1 wish I could repeat to you exactly the childlike 


JUDITH STERN. 


271 


prattle as we heard it, with her tone and the pure lit- 
tle manner, so that you could comprehend how it pene- 
trated to our inmost souls, powerful as a voice at the 
last judgment. 

“ But the voice was silent. And then, with a cry 
as though one buried alive had hurst his coffin-lid and 
greeted again the light of day — I have never heard a 
sound like it — the woman rushed to the child as though 
beside herself, seized it from the chair, and pressed it 
to her breast as though it was a child of her own whom 
she had thought to be lost, covered its bright little 
face again and again with kisses, and only released it 
when it began to be frightened, and struggled to free 
itself from the stormy caresses of the stranger lady. 

“ But now the little one must sit close beside her 
on the sofa, and her beautiful hands stroked the little 
head and pale cheeks. She must eat of all that was 
on the table, but must not taste the wine. And the 
woman would not take her eyes from the child’s, and 
talked to her without ceasing, and no longer seemed 
to know who else was in the room — hardly in the 
room, indeed, for I had not left my place by the open 
door. 

“ I had not the courage to mingle with even a 
single word in the conversation of the two. I was as 
though paralyzed in every sense and thought. Only 
as though from far away did an intelligible word reach 
me now and then. I was so crushed and annihilated 
that I only longed for strength to hold my breath till 
I should sink lifeless to the floor; life beyond this 
hour seemed to me mad — impossible. And I felt no 


272 


JUDITH STERN. 


curiosity to know how this miracle had come about ; 
whence the child had appeared so suddenly ; whether 
it was really an angel, as the woman often called it in 
her emotion and amid her caresses, or an ordinary hu- 
man child, whose sudden appearance here in the empty 
house was a part of the iiatural order of things. 

“ To the woman, too, this seemed indifferent ; and 
the child, as it was not asked, saw no need to give the 
beautiful lady, who was feeding her with cake and 
fruit, explanations as to her family affairs. It was 
only later that I learned that she was the daughter of 
the janitor, who, besides his little courier gerie, had a 
small lodging in the third story. As he was a widower, 
a neighbor’s wife came in during the day to supply his 
diminutive kitchen, and to look after the little girl, 
who already went to school, and needed but little care ; 
for she had been made thoughtful and skillful by the 
early loss of her mother and her life in the lonely 
house, and could take care of herself. As she heard 
that night the unusual passing to and fro, she had 
awaked, and could not restrain her curiosity to see 
what was going on. So she had groped her way into 
the doctor’s room, and made up her mind to wait there 
till his return, for the cut fruit lay only too attractively 
upon its plate. 

“ I do not know how much longer we three were 
left there alone in the strangest state in the world. 
But it could not have been less than an hour before 
we heard the carriage roll up again in the street 
below. 

“No one of us changed his or her place. Judith 


JUDITH STERN. 


273 


sat still upon the sofa beside the child — I leaned 
against the side of the open door — as we heard hasty 
but muffled steps come up the stairs. 

“ The doctor’s pale face appeared in the corridor ; 
he was without a light, although he had taken the 
pocket-lantern with him. As he saw the full light of 
the lamp that streamed out into the corridor from the 
open door, he paused an instant. Then, however, he 
quickened his pace and strode hastily past me into the 
room. I saw that an expression of grim, disappointed 
anger convulsed his features. But he controlled him- 
self at once. 

“ ‘ I find the pleasantest possible company as- 
sembled ! ’ he said. ‘ How did my little Anna invite 
herself to be a guest here ? Good ! madame, my 
cousin, will be all the more ready to grant me her 
pardon for extending the quarter of an hour in so un- 
authorized a fashion. I found, in reality, rather a 
dangerous state of affairs, that it would have been 
as heartless as it would be wrong for a physician — ’ 

“She suddenly rose. She had not had a single 
glance for him as he came in. ‘Good-night, little 
Annie,’ she said, again clasping the child in her arms. 
‘ To-morrow I am going to send for you to come into 
the country if your father will let you. There you 
shall pick beautiful flowers and eat pears and peaches, 
and I will take care that you have a doll. Sleep well, 
my little angel, sleep well — and God preserve you 
from all bad spirits ! ’ 

“ She let the child glide down from her arms to 
the floor, and walked past the doctor and me as though 


274 


JUDITH STERN. 


we were not in existence. Alcobara had barely time 
to take the lamp from the table and hasten after her ; 
I followed him immediately. He endeavored in vain 
on the way down the stairs to extract a word from 
her — talking to her lightly of the old lady’s illness, 
and of his sorrow at not being able to get away from 
her. He had had to send the janitor to an apothe- 
cary’s, as her excellency’s servant had taken advan- 
tage of the holiday. He was extremely sorry if his 
cousin had been offended at this involuntary stay. 

“We had arrived below, at the carriage. Judith 
entered it and shut the door behind her. 

“‘I will come out to-morrow,’ said the doctor, 
with scarcely-concealed agitation. ‘ I hope the night 
will then have inspired my dear cousin with milder 
opinions of my trifling fault.’ 

“ ‘ Give yourself no trouble,’ she answered, with a 
loud, firm voice. ‘ I shall give orders that you shall 
never be admitted to my presence again. I have seen 
you to-day for the last time.’ 

“She gave the signal to drive away. The next 
moment I stood face to face with my hated enemy. 
The lamp which he held in his hand shone brightly 
on his face, and for the first time I saw that cold 
devil’s-mask overspread with a dark glow. 

“ I also was to have seen her for the last time. 

“That night — and the next morning — and the 
days that followed ! You will spare my telling you 
in what a state of mind I spent them. 

“ I heard no word from her ; she did not come 
once to the town-house, as she usually did during her 


JUDITH STERN \ 


275 


stay in the country — especially in the absence of her 
husband. The fact that I did not go out to the coun- 
try-house, according to my old custom, could not fail 
to attract attention. I invented all kinds of excuses, 
but I saw that I was regarded with a doubtful expres- 
sion. I did not care — only for her! What did she 
think of me ? 

“ At last, I could bear it no longer. I wrote to 
her. In eight long pages I poured out to her all my 
repentance, my years of torture, my incoherent peti- 
tions that she would forget that mad hour. And, 
when the letter had been sent, I felt somewhat easier. 
But no answer came. 

“ After a fortnight, passed as though in an inferno , 
the bookkeeper received advices from the master that 
he was on his journey home, and would arrive at such 
and such a time. 

“ This unavoidable event, for which I had long 
enough to prepare myself, came upon me like a thun- 
derbolt from a clear sky. I felt that it was impossi- 
ble for me to meet the man whose fatherly confidence 
and kindness I had so terribly betrayed. 

“ I remained away from the workroom with the 
excuse that I was ill. Indeed, I was so to such an ex- 
tent that even the doctor, although he did not think 
seriously of it, and attributed it all to nervous excite- 
ment caused by overwork, ordered that I should have 
complete rest. My appearance was wretched, my 
pulse uneven ; but I refused decidedly to go into the 
country, as the master had intrusted to me the care 
of his collection ; and I spent the days in my room, 


276 


JUDITH STERN. 


in a mood not much better than that of a criminal 
condemned to death. 

“ On the day when David Stern was expected, I 
did not leave my bed. I really had a high fever. The 
wife had not come in from the country to meet her 
husband, and the master was only to stay for an hour 
in the city, and then drive at once to his estate. 

“ I had asked the bookkeeper to make my excuses. 
I hoped to be better to-morrow. Indeed, what could 
happen to-morrow ? Go out to the country to make my 
report to the principal ? Impossible ! And so I lay 
and brooded in very torture of soul, when I heard steps 
coming up the stairs and toward my door. Nothing 
remained for me to do but to counterfeit sleep, and, 
happily, even this sharp eye was deceived — for this 
time at least. I felt how he softly stroked my fore- 
head with his hand. ‘ It is moist,’ he said softly to 
the bookkeeper, who had accompanied him. ‘Well, 
the fever is broken. He must keep entirely quiet and 
follow the doctor’s orders. Remember me to him. I 
shall soon see him again.’ 

“ Then he went away. 

“ I have forgotten to say — but that is at once evi- 
dent — that he did not mean, by ‘the doctor,’ Dr. 
Asser Alcobara. He had kept himself invisible since 
that evening ; and, besides, the old family physician 
had never been dismissed. 

“ So I could breathe for one night more. But 
what had I gained by that ? As far as I knew her, 
it was impossible for her to keep silence. And, even 
if she should repress her natural feeling in order to 


JUDITH STERN. 


277 


shelter me, how could I ever go about again with 
straightforward eyes and frank brow in this house — 
among these people ? 

“ The next afternoon I sat upon my little sofa, ab- 
sorbed in these ceaselessly-active thoughts, and had 
just eaten what little I could force over my unwilling 
tongue, when there was again the sound of steps upon 
the stairs, and, before I could prepare or collect my- 
self, the dreaded man again entered my chamber. 

“ The first glance of his noble face showed me 
that I had at least nothing hostile to fear from him. 
It was more serious than was its wont toward young 
people, especially toward me. But the expression of 
kindness — of a purity of soul raised above all petty 
feelings — beamed from his brow and from his lips, 
that for a while remained closed. 

“ He nodded to me, came close to me, and looked 
at me carefully, almost as a physician might have 
done who had been called for a consultation, but 
mildly and almost pityingly. 

“ ‘ Come, come,’ he said, * it begins to go rightly 
again, my son. You have over-exerted yourself, have 
not economized your strength. Well, well, youth is 
never prudent. All will get into order again with a 
little good sense, patience, and time — you know those 
are three worthy fellows. But do not speak — that 
makes the evil worse. I understand you, my son, 
what you may have to say to me — well, well, I know 
all that. I can read the writing on your face like a 
written sheet. And now you must let me advise you 
— you must have a change of air. The physician 


278 


JUDITH STERN. 


thinks so, too. I should have been wiser, and have 
foreseen what would happen — I mean that the fever 
would break out at last if you kept still here and 
wasted your youth over your work. But tell any 
one that he will be wise if he does not first put a 
bit and bridle on his own heart. I did not want to 
let you go away from me — you had grown too dear 
to me, my dear boy ; and now it is my fault that the 
illness has broken out. But the damage can be made 
good. As soon as you are able to travel, you must 
go to Italy for me ; you can only become a real mas- 
ter of your work there, after all. I will send you to 
my Roman friends ; you can stay there three years, 
and then we will look further. Are you satisfied 
with this, my dear Benjamin ? ’ 

“ I sat as though stunned, incapable of uttering a 
single word. I could only grope for his hand. But, 
as I sought to kiss it, my emotion overcame me ; I 
fell at his feet, and a flood of tears rushed from my 
eyes. 

“ He laid his hand softly on my head. ‘ Child,’ 
he murmured, ‘ stand up. Be sensible, and save your 
strength ; life is long, and oftentimes it is hard, and 
its paths are not always smooth. But a firm heart 
helps toward the goal. Keep your heart strong, my 
son.’ 

“ He spoke a moment longer. I hardly heard it, 
yet his voice was like oil upon a burning wound. I 
still lay as though crushed to the earth, while he 
paced up and down the little room, and, as his fashion 
was, talked half to me, half to himself. At last he 


JUDITH STERN. 


279 


went to the bookcase on my bureau, took out a book, 
turned over the leaves, and then laid it open on the 
table. Then he went away without a parting word. 

“ When I was alone, I raised myself up, and my 
first act was to stagger to the table, and look for the 
place at which he had opened. It was a verse in Si- 
rach ; he had made with his pencil a little mark upon 
the margin. The words are burned into my memory 
as with fire, however mild they sound : 

“ ‘ Dear child, use thy time, and avoid unrighteous 
things. 

“‘And be not ashamed to acknowledge what is 
right for thy soul. 

“ 4 For one can so shame himself that he commits 
a sin therein ; and one can also so shame himself that 
he gains mercy and honor thereby .’ 

“ I took my departure on the following day. David 
Stern had left me kind messages and abundance of 
money and letters of introduction, which were handed 
to me by the old bookkeeper, with the remark that 
the doctor insisted that I should have no leavetakings, 
in order to avoid all excitement. So I deputed the 
good old man to express my thanks to the master, and 
to give my remembrances to his wife and to the boys, 
whom I would gladly have embraced once more before 
going. But it was impossible — I felt it. 

“I was only to see them again when they had 
grown into noble youths. For year after year passed 
away, and I had always so much to do in foreign lands 
that I could spare myself no time for a journey to my 


280 


JUDITH STERN. 


old home. Only when my old, fatherly friend grew 
so ill that the doctors gave him hut a short time 
longer to live, I could hear to he away no longer. He 
had given over his London business to me ; and I had 
long since fully regained my balance — a contented, 
happy, busy man. And yet I could not prevent a 
feeling of deep pain as I again entered the house at 
Leipsic. 

“ I will not tell you much of that. It was the 
noblest period of my life when I was permitted to 
stand by the side of that man during his last days. 
Since that time death has lost all its terrors for me. 

“ Frau Judith greeted me as an old friend ; besides, 
her spirit was so overcast with the shadows of death, 
that I saw but little of her. She was still a beautiful 
woman, doubly queenly in her grief. She wept her 
first tears as, on the day after the funeral, I sat alone 
beside her, and spoke to her of what he had been 
to me. 

“ ‘ Thank you,’ she said, when at length I was 
silent ; and she extended her hand to me. ‘ And yet 
— no one but me has ever known what a noble man 
he was ! ’ 

“ I remained three weeks in the house of mourn- 
ing, to put all the affairs in order. And, when at last 
I took my departure, I carried with me the hope of a 
new happiness in life. Frau Judith had never let the 
4 little angel ’ of that night part from her again, but 
had taken her and educated her as her daughter. The 
child had bloomed into such a loveliness of body and 
soul that I could not again forget her. A year later 


JUDITH STERN. 


281 


I carried her beyond the Channel — as my young wife; 
and she has remained the ‘ angel ’ of my life. 

“ But the devil who had sought to ruin us could 
not have been of that genuine, hardened kind over 
whom even shame before the righteous man can have 
no power. He was seen in Leipsic until the very day 
before David Stern’s return. Then he suddenly dis- 
appeared, without taking leave of any one. A trav- 
eler declares that he saw him soon after as surgeon on 
an East Indiaman. It has never been discovered what 
became of him.” 


THE END. 














I 





























* 


















% 


* 















































k 








4 














IN PARADISE. 

From the German of PAUL HEYSE. 

(Forming Number 12 of the “ Collection of Foreign Authors.' 1 ' 1 ) 

In 2 vols., 16mo. Paper cover, 60 cents per volume ; in cloth, $1.00 per volume. 


This is the first translation ever published of a novel by Paul Heyse, 
who ranks as the most famous of the younger German novelists, and it 
opens an entire new field to English readers. The “ Paradise ” of the 
book is a club of Munich artists and their friends ; and the strong, un- 
conventional characters, the charming picture of their intellectual Bo- 
hemia, and the perfect freshness of this new circle to the most hackneyed 
novel-reader, would of themselves make the story eagerly read, even 
without the strongly-wrought plot. It is, in short, a perfect study of a 
most dramatic phase of life, which has never been so treated by a novelist 
before ; and “ In Paradise” should have in this country the great success 
which has attended its several editions in Germany. It is not the novel 
of a day, but a real classic, ranking among the best books of contem- 
porary fiction-writers. 

From the New York Evening Post. 

“ Not a touch is given without adequate purpose ; not a sentence is 
written which does not help to produce the effect sought. ... We may 
call ‘ In Paradise ’ a great novel, with the utmost confidence in our judg- 
ment of it.” 

From the Boston Courier. 

“ The book has the calm of thoughtful, deliberate power in the midst 
of all its passions.” 

From the Philadelphia North American. 

“ No recent German fiction has revealed greater interest or ability.” 

From the New York Sun. 

“ This is a work of such extensive scope, and such careful and felici- 
tous workmanship, that it is certain to win more than an ordinary share 
of intelligent attention ; . . . but, besides and above the proofs of in- 
tuition and of pictorial power, there enters into this book the decisive 
element of greatness that it aims to follow through the mingled yarn of 
life the threads of superlative import and lustre — that in it high actions 
and high passions are worthily described.” 

From the Utica Herald. 

“ It is a symmetrical, well-built, and powerful novel, of absorbing in- 
terest, and capable of arousing the most dormant and blase of minds. It 
is likewise a profound and searching study of human nature, in manifold 
forms and under every possible light.” 


D. APPLETON & CO. t 649 & 651 Broadway , New York, 


RECENT PUBLICATIONS 


I. 

REMORSE. A Novel. From the French of Th. Bentzon. {Forming 
No. 13 of “ Appletons' Collection of Foreign Authors.") 16mo. Paper, 50 
cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

“ Remorse,” which appeared recently in the Revue des Deux Mondes, is a novel 
of great power. The author, who writes under the name of “ Th. Bentzon,” is 
Madame Blanc, “a woman,” says a writer in Lippincott's Magazine, “of great 
intelligence and the highest character.” 


II. 

THE GREAT GERMAN COMPOSERS. Comprising Biograph- 
ical and Anecdotical Sketches of Bach, Handel, Gluck, Haydn, Mozart, 
Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Franz, Chopin, Weber, Mendelssohn, 
and Wagner. {Forming No. 16 of Appletons ' 4 4 New Handy- Volume Series.") 
Paper cover, 30 cents. 

m. 

ANTOINETTE. A Story. By Andre Theuriet, author of “ Gerard’s 
Marriage,” 44 The House of the Two Barbels,” etc. {Forming No. 17 of Ap- 
pletons' 44 New Handy-Volume Series.") Paper cover, 20 cents. 

44 The leading idea of this story was borrowed from a remarkable romance, 
4 Good-bye, Sweetheart ! ’ by Rhoda Broughton. It would be interesting, it was 
thought, to place in analogous situations personages thoroughly French, and to 
see what transformations the differences of race, of manners, and of surround- 
ings, would require in the progress of the action.” — Author's Preface. 


IV. 

JOHN-A-DREAMS. A Tale. Forming No. 18 of Appletons ’ “ New 
Handy -Volume Series.") Price, 30 cents. 

44 The author of 4 John-a-Dreams ’ has condensed into one volume a pretty 
love-story, interspersed with as many appreciative sketches of character as might 
have furnished forth several novels of the orthodox length.” — London Athenaeum. 

44 The real merit of the tale, which is very considerable indeed, lies in the 
style, and in the flying shafts of scorn and wit which range through all the 
scenes.”— Pall Mall Gazette. 

44 4 John-a-Dreams’ is a bright, fresh, clever, amusing sketch. ... A series 
of caricatures, lively, pert, and entertaining.” — London Examiner. 

“It is, in many respects, far above the average of the fiction of the day. The 
style is light and graceful, and the writer has an exceptional knack of portraying 
the whole scope of a character in a few sparkling sentences.” — Scotsman. 

44 4 John-a-Dreams ’ is a distinct outcome of the day. . . . A more vivid picture 
of the age in which we live has seldom been afforded, and men of the day can 
scarcely do better than contemplate their own presentment as it is now held up 
to their view. . . . Long as is this extract, we would gladly have made it longer, 
so clever and true to Nature is the conversation.” — London Sunday Times. 


y. 

MRS. JACK. A Story. By Frances Eleanor Trollope. {Forming 
No. 19 of Appletons' 44 New Handy-Volume Series.") Price, 20 cents. 

For sale by all booksellers. Any volume mailed, post-paid, to any address in 
the United States, on receipt of price. 

I). APPLETON & CO ., Publishers, 

549 & 551 Broadway, New York. 


“We cannot too highly commend Tms latest scheme for presenting 

GOOD LITERATURE IN COMELY AND CONVENIENT 6HAPE, AT EXTREMELY LOW 

prices.” — New York Evening Post. 


APPLETONS’ 

New Handy-Volume Series. 


Brilliant Novelettes ; Romance , Adventure , Travel , Humor ; 
Historic , Literary , and Society Monographs. 


I. 

JET : Her Face or her Fortune ? By Mrs. Annie Edwardes, author of 

“Archie Lovell,” “Ought we to visit Her ?” etc. 30 cents. 

“‘Jet’ is a thoroughly good book. It is pure in purpose, fresh and attractive in 
style, and fully justifies all the ‘great expectations’ based upon the reputation Mrs. 
Edwardes has gained for herself .” — Boston Post. 

n. 

A STRUGGLE. By Barnet Phillips. 25 cents. 

“A charming novelette of the Franco-German War, told in a pleasant and interest- 
ing manner that absorbs the mind until the story is finished .” — Philadelphia Times. 

III. 

MISERICORDIA. By Ethel Lynn Linton. 20 cents. 

“We are not sure that we like anything by Mrs. Linton better than this .” — New 
York Evening Post. 


IV. 

GORDON BALDWIN, and THE PHILOSOPHER’S PENDULUM. By 
RcDOLPn Lindau. 25 cents. 

“Both tales are full of dramatic interest, and both are told with admirable skill.” — 
New York Evening Post. 

“ We recommend to readers of fiction these two remarkable stories.”— New York 
Times. 


2 


Appletons ’ New Handy - Volume Series. 


v. 

THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. By Katharine S. Macquoid. 20 
cents. 

“A particularly good bit of work by Katharine S. Macquoid. The story has a 
strong plot, and some of its scenes are fine bits of dramatic writing .' 1 — New York 
Evening Post. 

VI. 

ESSAYS OF ELIA. First Series. By Charles Lamb. 30 cents. 

“The quaintness of thought and expression, the originality and humor and exqui- 
site elaboration of the papers, have made them as much a standard as any of the 
writings of Addison and Steele, and far more agreeable .” — Philadelphia North 
American. 

VII. 

THE BIRD OF PASSAGE. By J. Sheridan Le Fanu, author of 
“ Uncle Silas,” etc. 25 cents. 

“The heroine is a pleasant relief from the crowd of conventional beauties that one 
knows by heart. The scenes of the book are as odd as the characters .” — Boston 
Courier. 

vm. 

THE HOUSE OF THE TV/O BARBELS. By Andre Theuriet, au- 
thor of “Gerard’s Marriage,” “The Godson of a Marquis,” etc. 
20 cents. 

“The tale is pretty, and so naively and charmingly told, with such delicate yet 
artistic characterization, that it leaves a most delightful impression on the reader’s 
mind .” — New York Express. 

“ A delightful little romance, exquisite in its conception and perfect in its style.” 
— Philadelphia Record. 

“The character of Germain Lafrogno is one of the best in modern fiction.” — 
Baltimore Sun. 

IX. 

LIGHTS OF THE OLD ENGLISH STAGE. Biographical and An ec- 
dotical Sketches of Famous Actors of the Old English Stage. Re- 
printed from Temple Bar. 30 cents. 

“The book treats of Kichard Burbage and other ‘originals’ of Shakespeare's 
characters, the Cibbers, Garrick, Charles Macklin, ‘Peg’ Woffington and George Anne 
Bellamy, John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, Cooke, Edmund Kean, Charles Young, Dora 
Jordan, and Mrs. Kobinson. A more interesting group of persons it would be hard to 
find .”— New York World. 


Applet ons* New Handy -Volume Series. 


3 


IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA. From the Nineteenth Century. By R. 
W. Dale. I. Society. II. Politics. III. and IV. Popular Educa- 
tion. 25 cents. 

“ Mr. Dale’s chapter upon American politics shows a greater degree of fairness and 
a better understanding of the spirit of our institutions than are exhibited by most 
English writers. In speaking of our social characteristics, he says that during the 
whole of his stay, and in all parts of the country, East and West, he was struck ‘with 
the extreme gentleness of American manners,’ and gives several instances which came 
under his observation.” — Boston Evening Transcript. 

“ The book shows how our society, politics, and systems of popular education, striko 
an intelligent, observing, fair-minded foreigner. The style of the book is pleasant, and 
the writer notices our republican ways with a mingling of surprise, admiration, and 
amusement, that is refreshing to read about.” — Louisville Courier- Journal. 


XI. 


THE GOLDSMITH’S WIFE. By Madame Charles Reybaud. 25 cents. 

“No one but a woman could have sounded the depths of the nature of this gold- 
smith’s wife, and portrayed so clearly her exquisite purity and the hard struggles she 
underwent.” — New York Mail. 

“The simplicity and delicacy of this little story render it as unique as it is ex- 
quisite.”— Albany Argus. 

XII. 

A SUMMER IDYL. By Christian Reid, author of “ Bonny Kate,” 
“Valerie Aylmer,” etc. 30 cents. 

“ A Summer Idyl ” is a charming summer sketch, the scene of which is on the 
French Broad, in North Carolina. It is eminently entertaining as a story, as well as a 
delightful idyllic rural picture. 

“ We consider it one of Christian Reid’s best efforts. It is full of spirit and ad- 
venture, relieved by an exquisite love-episode.” — Philadelphia Item. 

XIII. 

THE ARAB WIFE. A Romance of the Polynesian Seas. 25 cents. 

' “ The Arab Wife” is a picturesque and romantic story, of a kind to recall to many 

readers those brilliant books of thirty years ago — Melville’s “ Typee ” and “ Omoo.” 

XIV. 

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH’S DIAMONDS. By Julian Hawthorne, au- 
thor of “Bressant,” “Garth,” etc. 20 cents. 

“This interesting little story fully sustains the reputation of Julian Hawthorne. 
In him, at least, we have one more proof of the ‘heredity of genius.’ ” 


4 


Appletons ’ New Handy -Volume Series. 


XV. 

LIQUIDATED, and THE SEER. By Rudolpii Lindau, author of “ Gor- 
don Baldwin ” and “ The Philosopher’s Pendulum.” 25 cents. 

“ Rudolph Lindau is a young German author, rising rapidly to fame, whose stories 
have principally Americans and Englishmen for their dramatis personae , and are re- 
markable for dramatic directness and force, insight into character, and freshness of 
motive and incident.” 

XYI. 

THE GREAT GERMAN COMPOSERS. Comprising Biographical and 
Anecdotical Sketches of Bach, Handel, Gluck, Haydn, Mozart, 
Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Franz, Chopin, Weber, Mendels- 
sohn, and Wagner. 30 cents. 

XVII. 

ANTOINETTE. A Story. By Andre Theuriet. 20 cents. 

“ The leading idea of this story was borrowed from a remarkable romance, ‘ Good- 
bye, Sweetheart ! 1 by Rhoda Broughton. It would be interesting, it was thought, to 
place in analogous situations personages thoroughly French, and to see what trans- 
formations the differences of race, of manners, and of surroundings, would require in 
the progress of the action. This study has led to notable changes, and a nearly new 
work is the result, in characters, incidents, and landscapes; and, finally, the catas- 
trophe is entirely distinct.” — Author's Preface. 

XVIII. 

JOHN-A-DREAMS. A Tale. Price, 30 cents. 

XIX. 

MRS. JACK. A Story. By Frances Eleanor Trollope. Price, 
20 cents. 


Appletons’ New Handy-Yolttme Series is in handsome 18mo volumes, in large 
type, of a size convenient for the pocket, or suitable for the library- shelf, bound in 
paper covers. 

*** Any volume mailed, post-paid, to any address within the United States or 
Canada, on receipt of the price. 


D. APPLETON & CO., 549 & 651 Broadway, New York. 

LB M y ’22 







COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS. 


The design of the “Collection of Foreign Authors ” is to give selec- 
tions from the better current light literature of France, Germany, and 
other countries of the European Continent, translated by competent 
hands. The series is published in uniform i6mo volumes, at a low 
price, and bound in paper covers and in cloth. 

PAPER. CLOTH. 

I. SAMUEL BROHL AND COMPANY. A Novel. 

From the French of Victor Cherbuliez - - $0.60 $1.00 

II. GERARD'S MARRIAGE. A Novel. From the 

French of Andre Theuriet ------ .50 .75 

III. SPIRITE. A Fantasy. From the French of Theo- 

phile Gautier - - - - .50 .75 

IV. THE TOWER OF PERCEMONT. From the 

French of George Sand - - - - - - .50 .75 

V. META HOLDENIS. A Novel. From the French 

of Victor Cherbuliez - .50 .75 

VI. ROMANCES OP THE EAST. From the French 

of Comte de Gobineau .60 1.00 

VII. RENEE AND FRANZ K From the French of. 

Gustave Haller - - '- .50 .75 

VIII. MADAME GOSSELIN. From the French of 

Louis Ulbach ------ - .60 1.00 

IX. THE GODSON OF A MARQUIS. From ti»~ 

French of Andre Theuriet - - - - - .50 .75 

X. ARIADNE. From the French of Henry Gre- 

VILLE - - .50 .75 

XI. SAFA R-HADGI ; or, Russ and Turcoman. From 

the French of Prince Lubomirski - .60 1.00 

XII. IN PARADISE. From the German of Paul 

Heyse. In Two Volumes - - - Per vol., .60 1.00 

XIII. REMORSE. A Novel. From the French of Th. 

Bentzon - - - - - .50 .75 

XIV. JEAN TETEROUS IDEA. A Novel. From 

the French of Victor Cherbuliez - - - .60 1.00 

XV. TJtiiffeS 1 '* Pr OM^ THE GERMAN OF PAUL 

HEYSE - - - .60 1. 00 

D. APPLETON A CO., Publishers, New York. 

*** Either of the above volumes sent by mail, post-paid, to any address in the United 
States or Canada, upon receipt of the price. 














■ 

















































































































• V 




























. 







. 





• . 


i 











■ . 




















. 


* 







































* 










■ 




























































- 






















































































































' 




















- 












• • 



























































































































































































































